








COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 









JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 


























JOAN’S FRESHMAN 
YEAR AT STANFORD 


By 

Dorothy Plummer 

u 



Boston I 939 New York 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD 
COMPANY 




Copyright 1939, by 

LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY 


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re¬ 
produced in any form without permission in writing 
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes 
to quote brief passages in connection with a review 
written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. 


* > 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


©ClA 1 34670 


PREPARED AND UNAFRAID 


J 


i 

iD 



Publisher s Note 

It is our hope that, in some small way, JOAN'S FRESHMAN 
YEAR AT STANFORD fulfills the concept of modern edu¬ 
cation expressed in the Commencement address of Dr. Ray 
Lyman Wilbur to the Graduating Class of 1935. 

A war can consume time or take life; a depression 
can reduce property or destroy income; but only 
disease or degeneration can take away trained brains. 

Many of you are here today because your families have 
wanted to give you security and the power to proceed 
with a normal life in the face of perplexing changes. 
Change and the unexpected are good stimulants. You 
need not fear them if you are prepared and change with 
them while still keeping your own life course. Stanford 
has tried to give you both training and a sense of values 
and direction. Without these one is apt to merely flop 
around. Too rigid following of narrow objectives for 
too long a time results in prejudices and pettiness. Some¬ 
times, as I see men persist in selfish aims I think of the 
old darkey who was navigating a boat across the 
Chesapeake Bay at night. The North Star had been 
pointed out to him and he was told to hold the course 


V 


PREPARED AND UNAFRAID 

upon it. In the middle of the night he woke up the 
owner and asked him to pick him out a new star, as 
he had lost the old one. As we grow we must be on the 
lookout for new stars and for new directions. You will 
find life full of new and brilliant stars if you look out 
for them. But you will also find the sky full of stars, 
so that choices must be made by you all of the time. 
Those choices determine where you go and how fast 
and far you travel. 

The training you have received makes your sense of 
values such that your selections should be wiser than 
those of many others. Your sky should be filled with 
more guiding stars—since through teacher, library, and 
laboratory you have been brought into contact with 
the results in literature, history, and science of a myriad 
of the more significant human lives that our world has 
known. A prepared mind is like a good tool. It can 
be used for diverse tasks; but it needs constant sharpen¬ 
ing to keep ready for the next job that comes. 

To be prepared is to have confidence and to be un¬ 
afraid. Keeping your record clean, so that you can 
look every neighbor in the eye without shame or excuse, 
is the surest way to happiness and content. Your 
own personality is your own greatest possession, and 
it belongs only to you. No one else ever has or ever 
will be you. Around it you have built that covering 
shell with which youth early learns to protect itself. 
Sharp experiences, disappointments, and disillusions 
have hardened it; but you must not withdraw into its 


VI 


PREPARED AND UNAFRAID 


cover like a disturbed mollusk to avoid trouble or pain. 

Now with graduation comes the time for you to act 
positively, for your personality to count, and for the 
development of your own morale. Let others, if they 
must, whine or whimper about the rules or hardships. 
Get into the game of life and play it hard—but play it 
with others, respecting their rights and their person¬ 
alities. I envy you the chance to take a part in the next 
fifty years, with the world made small, intense, and 
dangerous but full of wonderful possibilities. Anyone 
can fish in a quiet and reposeful inlet; but it takes real 
men to fight the tides and storms where the best fish are. 

Stanford has tried to make you respect facts, to 
permeate you with a sense of loyalty and honesty, to 
fire you with a desire to be of service to neighbor and 
nation. With confidence in you and in our state and 
nation we set you free with our distinguishing marks 
of parchment or hood, in the high hope that you are 
prepared and unafraid. 

Ray Lyman Wilbur 
President of Stanford University 


vn 






A HISTORICAL SKETCH 


OF 

LELAND STANFORD JUNIOR UNIVERSITY 

S tanford University, a living, ever-changing memo¬ 
rial to Leland Stanford, Jr., opened its doors on 
October ist, 1891, with four hundred and sixty-five 
registered students. Its inception goes back seven years 
earlier to March, 1884, when Leland, Jr., a boy of six¬ 
teen and the only child of the Senator and Mrs. Stanford, 
passed away while traveling abroad. 

In the midst of this crushing sorrow, the Stanfords 
expressed their wish that thereafter “the children of 
California should be their children.” Thus, they sought 
some form of memorial that would at once, not only 
immortalize the memory of their beloved son, but 
which would be a lasting contribution to the well¬ 
being and happiness of the youth of the Golden West. 
That they should choose education as this greatest 
gift was not strange, as Leland, Jr. himself had once 
expressed a desire to aid those students who were not 
financially able to secure a university education. But 
many Californians doubted the wisdom and the practica¬ 
bility of such a university as the Stanfords planned. 


IX 


A HISTORICAL SKETCH 


Were there not universities enough? Why duplicate 
what the state was already doing? Why divide the 
friends of education in California, compete for students 
with the then struggling University of California, 
thereby bringing in the element of unwholesome compe¬ 
tition and rivalry? 

There was another reason for hesitation. The Stan¬ 
fords proposed to emphasize the practical nature of 
higher education. In university circles, fifty years ago, 
this was an attitude looked upon with suspicion. 
Lowell would have a university where nothing that is 
useful is taught. The Stanfords seemed to want an 
institution where nothing that is not useful would 
find a place. The intention of the student as to what he 
proposed to do in life was to be early declared and 
steadily kept in view. Yet, the charter was broadly 
drawn, and all those courses which the educators think 
of as the “humanities” were included as contributing 
to the preparation and development of the practical in¬ 
dividual. 

The choice of its first president determined the aims 
and scope of Stanford University, and determined, for 
a generation at least, and possibly for all time, the 
kind of institution which was to grow up upon this far 
western rim of the continent. For it was Dr. David Starr 
Jordan who formed Stanford University in all its 
essential features, and who gave it those characteristics 
which we instinctively associate with the Stanford way, 
the Stanford spirit, and the Stanford life—on the Farm 


A HISTORICAL SKETCH 

and in the world of affairs. The internal organization 
of the University was modeled upon Cornell and 
Indiana, a combination which maintained the classical 
American form of education and exalted the ideal of 
scholarship and scholarly training. But with char¬ 
acteristic western audacity, the dead weight of tradition 
was cast aside, and modern problems were approached 
wholly in the modern spirit. Dr. Jordan chose a faculty 
of young men with their spurs yet to win. He gave 
them complete independence, and freedom of thought 
and action. He set up the equality of subjects. He in¬ 
spired each department to propose for itself a definite 
goal of attainment, and to train its major students, from 
the beginning, toward that goal. He carried out, in his 
own relations with faculty and students, a frank demo¬ 
cratic comradery which gave to Stanford society a 
notable distinction and charm. 

The history of the University, in outward events, 
divides itself easily into a number of quite distinct 
periods. The first covers that of the two initial years, 
from 1891 to 1893, ending with the death of Senator 
Stanford in June of the latter year. This was pre¬ 
eminently the Golden Age. It was the period of dis¬ 
covery, of unlimited possibilities. If there were un¬ 
expected obstructions also, these only added to the zest 
of existence. Excepting only the Business Office, no 
cloud larger than a man’s hand showed on the horizon. 
The enrollment of the first year was larger than that of 
the State University, then nearly a quarter of a century 


XI 


A HISTORICAL SKETCH 


old; the second year showed an increase of forty percent. 
There was pioneering in the dormitories and on the 
Row, unexpected limitations, mistakes, misunderstand¬ 
ings, misfits, but the glow of achievement and of promise 
spread over everything that was undertaken during 
these two years. 

The second period began with the death of Senator 
Stanford, followed immediately by the financial panic 
of 1893. Since the University’s endowment was only 
prospective, not actual, this calamity should have wiped 
Stanford University off the map. But Mrs. Stanford’s 
steadfastness, courage, resourcefulness, and personal 
sacrifice saved the financial situation. Dr. Jordan’s un¬ 
faltering optimism, and wise and daring expediency, 
together with the unwavering loyalty of faculty and 
student body, brought the University through, unim¬ 
paired in ideals and practical accomplishment, re¬ 
tarded only in its development. At the end of the 
period the returning wave of financial prosperity had 
restored their former values to the Stanford properties, 
and the estate was at last out of the probate court and 
in the hands of Mrs. Stanford, still sole trustee of the 
University. 

The third period, 1895 to 1905, may be characterized 
as the age of expansion, of great building activity. The 
whole of the Outer Quadrangle and the Memorial 
Church belong to this period. Its second noteworthy 
feature was the establishment of the rule of the trustees 
and the end of the era of personal government. All the 

xii 


A HISTORICAL SKETCH 


dreams of the founders as to the external university 
seemed about to be realized. It was the period also when 
the majority of fraternity and sorority houses were con¬ 
structed, when the University generally seemed at the 
beginning of its greatest development. It was brought 
to a close in February, 1905, with the quiet passing of 
Mrs. Leland Stanford, and the assumption of leadership 
and responsibility for the University’s future by a 
Board of Trustees. 

The fourth period had its actual beginning with the 
earthquake of 1906 when a number of Stanford’s new 
buildings were destroyed with an estimated loss of 
$2,500,000, and may be thought of as closing in 1913 
when Dr. Jordan laid down the presidency he had held 
uninterruptedly for twenty-two years. Outwardly this 
was a period of rebuilding, inwardly of bewilderment, 
of vanishing expectations, of student turmoil, of many 
readjustments. The trustees were discovering financial 
limitations. The general atmosphere was one of inertia. 
Underneath, though, the Stanford spirit, the Stanford 
viewpoint, the Stanford ideal remained untouched. 
There was actual growth, even if the pace were not 
rapid, and a heartening faith that the next turn in the 
road would bring the promised land again within the 
range of vision. 

The fifth period may be thought of as covering the 
presidency of Dr. Ray Lyman Wilbur, beginning in 
1916 and scheduled to end in 1942. The two and a 
half years of Dr. Branner’s presidency (1913-16) was a 


Xlll 


A HISTORICAL SKETCH 


prelude in which, while no large undertakings were 
started, steady progress was made. With the coming of 
Dr. Wilbur, doubt and uncertainty were left behind, and 
an era of rapid expansion and unexampled growth be¬ 
gan. In the twenty-three years already passed, eight 
million dollars have been added to the investment funds 
of the University, and the income available for academic 
uses has increased more than four-fold. The number of 
students has more than doubled. An extensive building 
program has included, among the most notable struc¬ 
tures, the Art Gallery, the Library, the Women’s Gym¬ 
nasium, two dormitories each for men and women, 
Memorial Hall, the Laurence Frost Amphitheater, the 
Cubberley Education Building, and, under construc¬ 
tion, is the War Library planned to house the extensive 
collection of material covering the World War as¬ 
sembled by ex-President Herbert Hoover. Under¬ 
graduate instruction has been reorganized, the Inde¬ 
pendent Study Plan introduced, and the Food Research 
Institute and the Graduate School of Business added to 
the departments of research and instruction. In all 
departments and “schools,” graduate and research work 
has been emphasized and made largely possible by 
special grants and appropriations from many sources. 
Dr. Jordan thought the pioneer classes were attracted 
to Stanford because “all its finger posts pointed 
forward.” Under the leadership of Dr. Wilbur this 
has become the university’s strongest characteristic. 


XIV 


A HISTORICAL SKETCH 
And to the Future. . . . 

Stanford is unique among the great universities of the 
world, not alone because of the natural beauty of the 
surrounding country and of its campus, nor yet be¬ 
cause of the perfect planning and construction of its 
buildings—any great university can develop these. 
But there is an unusual quality about “The Farm.” 
Beneath the friendly informality of the campus and the 
gracious manner of living is an ever restless spirit of 
change—of modern seekers for romance, adventure 
and truth in science and in the arts; of youth ever 
challenging the unknown, respecting the established, 
but not accepting it without question. 

Yes, though we cannot hope to predict the amount of 
power this still young and vigorous university shall 
wield through future generations we know that its 
students will keep alive Stanford’s ideal of quality and 
usefulness, and will take with them to all walks of life 
and to the far corners of the earth the creed that David 
Starr Jordan gave them, “Let the Winds of Freedom 
Blow.” 

Orrin Leslie Elliott 
Registrar, Emeritus 

Stanford University 
September i, 1939 


xv 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


The author and the publishers thank the Stanford Uni¬ 
versity Press for permission to use the address by Dr. Ray 
Lyman Wilbur from Stanford Horizons, and Mr. Edward 
R. Martin for permission to use “A Historical Sketch of 
Stanford,” which originally appeared in Where the Rolling 
Foothills Rise, and which has been especially revised for 
this publication by Dr. Orrin Leslie Elliot. 



Chapter One 


I nez, look. Isn’t this wig on crooked?” 

“Dora, please hook me up.” 

“There, I’ve found my shawl! Bunny was sitting 
on it.” 

Joan leaned back in the makeup chair and closed her 
eyes. It was her first moment of rest that day. In spite 
of the relaxation, however, her heart beat high and 
every nerve tingled. Around her, the babel of voices 
went on. 

“Don’t forget, your entrance is after I say, ‘Be polite 
if it hurts.’ ” 

“Miss Hamlin, do I take a bow with the rest?” 
Knock at the dressing room door. “Box for Joan.” 


ii 
















JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

More flowers! Joan straightened up and wiped cold 
cream from her eyes. 

“Just a minute.” Miss Hamlin, the high school dra¬ 
matics teacher drew her back. “No time for interrup¬ 
tions. Bunny, take them for her. Curtain goes up in 
less than an hour and I’ve most of the cast yet to do.” 

Joan sighed and closed her eyes again. This was the 
hardest part of all, this interval of waiting. 

“If I could go on right now,” she murmured, “I 
wouldn’t be a bit nervous.” 

“I wonder!” Miss Hamlin laughed. “At any rate, 
you’d bring down the house. Look at yourself.” 

Joan sat up, glanced into the big mirror and gasped 
at her reflection. It was hard to realize that this crea¬ 
ture with hair screwed back, face a mask of powder 
and one eye deeply shadowed with blue pencil was 
Joan Whitney, and would soon be winsome Lovlya 
of the senior play. She dropped back hurriedly. 

“Dear me, how dreadful,” she giggled. “I don’t 
think I’ll ever have any self-respect again.” 

Another knock. “Programs, Miss Hamlin.” 

“Oh, let’s see them!” Everyone crowded about. 

“Aren’t they darling with that cunning little woodcut 
of Joan in costume at the top.” 

When Joan looked into the mirror again, it was to see 
herself transformed into a winsome and provocative 
Balkan peasant girl. Bronze curls caught back into a 
gay kerchief and a bright, embroidered provincial dress 
made her naivete complete. 

“My, what a complexion!” She turned her head this 


12 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

way and that. “Just like a marshmallow, with all the 
tan covered up.” 

Miss Hamlin smiled. “Don’t be too vain. Wait until 
you see the rest of the cast. Dora next.” 

Joan, thanking her with a smile, slipped from the 
chair and hurried over to a table where the box of 
flowers waited. On the top, a card offered best wishes 
from Mother and Dad and the lifted lid revealed 
an old-fashioned bouquet: pink camellias, violas and 
lilies of the valley in a ruffle of silver lace. The per¬ 
fect accessory to her quaint white net second-act 
costume. Such a happy little surprise was so typical 
of them both. In her turn, she would manage to 
smile at them during the play, and, if it were pos¬ 
sible, would give them cause to be proud of her to¬ 
night. 

Humming softly, Joan laid the bouquet in a window 
where the air was fresh and ran out into the hallway 
in search of Don, who was to play opposite her lead. 
At the turn of a corner, the two came upon each other 
and stepping back, they both gasped, 

“Joan!” 

“Don!” 

For Don was no less transformed than she. A uni¬ 
form of royal blue and white, glittering with medals 
and braid, had turned him into a splendid prince. 
For a moment, they stood, gazing at each other. 

“What a really distinguished man he will be,” Joan 
thought to herself, for the uniform and the striking 
makeup displayed to advantage his tall, lithe figure 


T 3 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

and broad shoulders, and his well-set head with its 
pensive eyes. 

“The eyes of a dreamer,” Joan’s mother had at one 
time remarked, “and the long, tapering hands of an 
artist.” 

“Look!” Don exclaimed finally, pulling a paper from 
his pocket and offering it to his partner as they seated 
themselves on a chest just outside the wings. “Evening 
T imes” 

“Oh!” Joan unfolded it quickly. “Is it in, Don? 
Did you find it?” 

He indicated a paragraph. Joan read the headlines, 

ALL IS READY 

FOR OPERETTA 

Fresno High School Students 
To Present Original 
Comedy Drama 

and under it, 

The lilting and picturesque operetta, 

“Two Times Three,” a comedy of Balkan 
peasant life, written by a group of the 
senior girls, will be presented this eve¬ 
ning in the auditorium of the Fresno 
High School by the senior class. The 
cast will include many of Fresno’s most 
talented young people. Lovlya, the lead¬ 
ing character, will be portrayed by Joan 
Whitney, whose dramatic ability this 
city has already, on several occasions, had 
opportunity to enjoy. 

Donald Bishop will interpret the role 
of Prince Delitu, ardent suitor of the fair 
Lovlya. He has also designed the set¬ 
tings for the production, which show re¬ 
freshing originality and an able grasp of 
modem stagecraft. 


*4 








JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“And look, right under it,” 

SENIOR DAY PROVES 
GREAT SUCCESS 

The Senior Day held at Fresno High 
School yesterday was one of the most 
interesting in the history of that institu¬ 
tion. The track meet between the sen¬ 
iors and the school-at-large was full of 
tense moments. Preceding the meet, a 
mock funeral procession, carrying in state 
a coffin, supposed to contain the goat 
of the seniors, was buried with great 
ceremony. Later,—. 

“Pardon me, Joan,” Don interrupted, “but read 
that.” His finger indicated a paragraph tucked down 
in a corner of the page. 

Mr. Holman, Principal of the Fresno 
High School, is proud to report that 
eighty-two percent of his graduates are 
planning to attend college in the fall. 

The great majority of these will register 
at the Fresno State College. A few, how¬ 
ever, plan to go further afield. Of these, 

Joan Whitney and Donald Bishop will 
matriculate in Stanford University. 

Joan’s course is undecided, but Don will 
register in the art department.— 

“But Don,” Joan dropped the paper in her surprise, 
“I thought you had decided to enter the law school.” 

“That’s true. But dad must have known that I 
was agreeing to a career in law only to please him; 
that I would have much preferred some form of art. 
And finally, just yesterday, he suggested the change 
himself.” 


J 5 







JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Well, he’s a peach!” Joan gasped. 

She realized what a sacrifice it must have been for 
Mr. Bishop, who had grown with the town to be one 
of its outstanding lawyers and a citizen interested in 
all worth while municipal enterprises, to have given 
up the thought of having D. W. Bishop, and below 
it, D. W. Bishop fr. printed some day on the frosted 
glass of his office door. In addition he had been for 
many years a widower and all his affection now 
centered in his son. Yet, cheerfully recognizing and 
accepting this parting of the ways between his boy’s 
interests and his own, he had himself suggested the 
break. 

Don, caught again into the excitement of the 
moment, jumped up and stepped over to the cur¬ 
tain. 

“House is filling,” he whispered excitedly. “I see 
your folks and my dad sitting in front to the left. 
And the Kenyons and the Bangs next to them—all 
six of the Bangs.” 

“Let me look!” Joan stretched on tiptoe to see 
through the tiny hole in the curtain. “Oooh, doesn’t 
everyone look nice! Betsy Bangs in that adorable 
white organdie run with black velvet and Mrs. 
Erling in peach chiffon printed in gray. And—. 
It just looks like a flower garden. My, they’re com¬ 
ing in fast.” 

Bunny Bangs, strolling past with some of the boys, 
caught sight of Joan and Don and dashed over. “Let 

/6 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

me see! Please! Oh, look, there’s mother! I’m going 
to whistle.” 

“No, no!” Joan and Don dragged her forcibly from 
the hole. 

“Come on,” Don took each girl by a hand. “Back 
you go to the dressing rooms. Give the boys a chance 
to get the stage in order. I want to look it over a bit 
myself, too.” 

In the girls’ dressing room, all was now excitement 
and confusion. Tables and chairs were strewn with a 
mass of clothing and props; bouquets stood about in 
bottles and here and there from the walls, Joan was 
confronted with her own eyes laughing back at her 
from left over posters of the evening’s entertainment. 
In the midst of this. Miss Hamlin stood, giving the girls 
a final inspection while Grace Kenyon, who had mis¬ 
placed her slippers, crept about on her hands and knees 
peering under tables and chairs in search of them. 

“I know I’ll never find them,” she wailed. “What 
shall I do?” 

Joan was about to join her in the hunt, when they 
were all brought to attention by Miss Hamlin. 

“Five minutes more, girls,” she announced. “Better 
be sure you’re ready to go on. And have your props 
handy.” 

Someone clutched at Joan’s elbow. She turned to find 
Bubbles Harris at her side. 

“Why, Bubbles, what’s the matter?” 

The pink of Bubbles’ made-up checks stood out 


J 7 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

abruptly against her real pallor and there were tears 
in her eyes. Joan drew her out into the hall. 

“Joan—all those people—I—I’m afraid to face 
them,” she wailed. “I just can’t. Oh, what will Mother 
and Dad think?” 

Joan put her arms around the panic stricken girl. 
“Nonsense, why you probably know ’most everybody 
out there. It’s just this standing around waiting that 
makes you feel so. Once you start, you’ll be quite all 
right. Come on, now.” 

Bubbles smiled uncertainly. The dressing room door 
opened and Grace bounced out in her little high- 
heeled slippers. 

“Found ’em, thank my stars!” she whispered, taking 
Bubbles’ hand. “Come, we two go on together.” 

Just then Don, dashing down the corridor, caught 
up with them and the group was off to the stage en¬ 
trance, lost shoes and stage fright quite forgotten. 

At the end of the first act, the success of the play 
was assured. At the end of the second, wave upon wave 
of applause beckoned the cast to a round of curtain 
calls; first, the entire group; then, all the principals; 
and finally, Lovlya alone. Flushed, smiling, her eyes 
shining, she bowed to right, to left, to the balcony, 
then looked down at her parents and waved. 

“Speech! Speech!” someone called and others re¬ 
peated it. Joan caught her breath, then smiled back 
at them bravely until they were silent. 

“Dear everybody,” she said breathlessly, “thank you 

18 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

so much—for liking our play. We’ve done our best— 
all of us—and we’re so happy if it has pleased you.” 

She made a movement as if to bow; then, with the 
kindly faces of her neighbors raised to her, hesitated. 
“We want you to be even more proud of us, when we 
leave high school. And we know you’ll be wishing us 
well wherever we are and whatever we do. We’ll al¬ 
ways try our best, I’m sure, to be worthy of your loyalty. 
Thank you.” 

Then, she did bow, to a storm of applause, and as 
she beckoned, the whole cast came on again. 

In the meantime, ushers had been coming up the 
aisles with flowers and now the girls’ arms were filled 
with bouquets. Joan and the rest had never before 
realized how many friends they had. She was so happy 
that it seemed life could never again hold anything 
half so perfect as this. And yet, there was Stanford, 
ready to welcome her in the fall; Stanford and her big 
brother, an outstanding senior on the Campus. She 
laughed aloud in sheer joy. 

In a minute, they were off the stage and making hur¬ 
ried changes of costume; then, the group assembled 
again for the last act. 

# # # 

There was a rush to the dressing rooms on the falling 
of the final curtain, while eyes sparkled in anticipation 
of the fun ahead. For the senior class, the evening was 
only half over; the remainder of it was to be spent at 


7 9 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Oasis, the graceful Georgian Colonial house set in the 
midst of broad fig and prune orchards which Don and 
his father called home. Everyone knew from experi¬ 
ence what a party there meant. A student band from 
the state college, dancing in the drawing rooms; after¬ 
ward, supper by candle light from the big girandoles 
that would twinkle merrily over the silver and the 
fancy icings on the cakes and the salads that were 
almost too wonderful to disarrange. 

Soon, the winding, palm-fringed avenue was dotted 
with lights from cars. Then, the halls were a hubbub 
of gay voices as the guests began to arrive. Finally, 
greetings and congratulations having taken place along 
the receiving line, the dancing was under way. 

Later in the evening, Mr. Bishop discovered Joan, by 
herself, curled up in a big chair in the library. 

“Tired?” He smiled, remembering how, from his 
seat with the patrons and patronesses, he had watched 
her being whirled from one partner to another during 
the last hour or more. 

“No. Not really. But I never can resist taking a peek 
at all of your wonderful books. Even the lovely bind¬ 
ings make me feel scholarly. I’m going back in a 
minute, though.” 

Mr. Bishop settled himself in a chair near her. “Are 
you glad to be through with your high school days, 
Joan?” 

Joan was thoughtful a moment. “I’m not sure. 
Sometimes, the future seems so perfect—college, new 


20 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

friends, everything different and interesting. Then 
again, it means I must leave all this. Do you suppose 
we’ll ever all be together again?” 

She paused for a moment, while her fingers touched 
some tiny jade figures perched on teakwood stands on 
the table beside her. Then, glancing up with a confid¬ 
ing smile, “Maybe, too, I’m a little frightened. Every¬ 
thing will be so new and strange.” 

“Frightened? With that big brother of yours at 
Stanford ? Why, he’ll have everything so well adjusted 
for you that you’ll never have to worry that little head 
of yours about anything.” 

“I’m sure he will. No, I’m not afraid of that part of 
college. But I hear that scholarship standards are very 
high over there. Do you suppose I’ll be able to make 
my grades?” 

“Joan!” Mr. Bishop looked reproving. “And you 
an honor student in High! Of course you will, and 
outside activities, besides. But be sure you mix them 
both. It’s the student with personality and initiative 
as well as brains who is truly successful in college.” 

He stepped over to Joan and took her by the hand. 
“Come, your friends will be missing you. This isn’t 
a time to be serious.” 

At midnight, supper was announced. The boys and 
girls gathered at one end of the dining room where 
there was a table covered with a buffet spread. Then 
they scattered to small tables. 

“Tell me,” Hester, editor of the school paper, leaned 


21 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

across to Joan after they were all seated, “what did you 
think of when you were standing out in front of the 
curtain at the end of the second act all alone ? What is 
a celebrity’s reaction in the moment of her tri¬ 
umph?” 

“Oh yes, do tell us,” the girls nearby encouraged 
her. 

Joan laughed. “Now you’re teasing me, but I’m not 
that conceited.” 

“No, really,” Hester urged. 

“Well, if you must know,” Joan looked pensive, “I 
kept saying, ‘If only Hugh were here. I do wish Hugh 
could see his little sister now!’ ” She glanced up with 
a disarming smile. “Was that very vain?” 

“Not at all,” Mr. Bishop answered her. “And when 
is this brother of yours returning from Stanford?” 

“He isn’t coming home this summer, Mr. Bishop. 
He’s working during vacation in a law office in Palo 
Alto. I won’t see him until I arrive on the Campus 
this fall.” 

The candles were burning low when Terry, president 
of the senior class, finally rose and lifted his glass. 

“To our host, the best friend a senior class ever had.” 

At once, there was a rustle as chairs were pushed 
back and the class rose to its feet. Then, a toast was 
drunk to the principal, the senior president, the senior 
class, to the leading lady, the leading man, the cast. 
Soon, arms were placed around their neighbor’s shoul¬ 
ders and with only the tapers illuminating softly the 


22 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

young faces, the high school and class songs were sung. 

Suddenly, as eyes were growing a bit moist, all the 
lights went on again and here was Bill Winn, on a 
chair, ready to give the school victory cheer. 



Chapter Two 


H ello! How can you look so cool?” Don ran up 
the steps of the Whitney porch and, dropping to a 
seat near Joan, mopped his brow, “Hundred in the 
shade, but you’d never know it here.” 

He glanced about him appreciatively at the old- 
fashioned verandah, vine-shaded, with its invitingly 
cushioned chairs and couches. As Joan leaned back, 
immaculate and comfortable, in the rustic swing, Don 
envied her quite openly. 

“Didn’t last evening tire you one bit, Joan? Dad’s 
decision that I might ‘trade Blackstone for a sketch¬ 
book’ as he put it, was too much for me. I didn’t go to 
sleep till almost dawn and I’ve been driving about the 

H 










































JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

country ever since breakfast trying to imagine having 
four whole years in a really fine art department.” 

“I’m so glad for you, Don. I think your father 
realized that you’d never be happy in a law office. But 
what course are you going to take? Stage design, 
painting, architecture, illustration? Or a sample of 
each until you find out which you really want to spe¬ 
cialize in?” 

“I already know and you should be able to 
guess.” 

'‘How can I guess? This year, you did most of the 
illustrations for the year book, designed the sets for 
the play and painted a mural in the cafeteria. Too 
many clues. It might even be architecture, only I 
don’t think you’ve done much of that lately.” 

“It is architecture. And I’ve done quite a bit. Right 
in your father’s office. I told you I was going over 
there. Don’t you remember?” 

“You said that you dropped in once in a while, and 
I know that one day you had some of his books. But 
I didn’t know you were seriously interested.” 

“Very seriously. Over a year ago, he fixed me up a 
space there with a drawing board and everything I 
needed and I got to work. He’s a grand critic. And 
full of new ideas. Gym was the only thing that kept 
me away after school. The rest of the time, I was hang¬ 
ing around causing him trouble.” 

Joan laughed. “I can imagine how much trouble you 
were. He probably had as much fun out of it as you 


2 5 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

did.” She sighed. “I only wish dad had as much of it 
to do as he would like.” 

“Things are pretty slow in the building line around 
here, aren’t they?” 

“Utterly.” 

“Why doesn’t he open another section of that land 
he owns near Visalia? Remember the last time he sub¬ 
divided? The buildings went like hot cakes. The dis¬ 
play home was open one hour when it was sold.” 

“It wouldn’t be any good, Don. He’s thought of 
everything. I know. Even cutting loose and trying 
some place else. But tell me, did I hear you say you’d 
been riding around ever since breakfast?” 

Don nodded. 

“Then, you haven’t had lunch.” 

“Oh, bother lunch.” 

“Why, Don Bishop!” Joan jumped to her feet. “It’s 
no wonder you’re feeling wasted away. Now, don’t 
move ’till I come back. No, I won’t listen,” and she ran 
into the house as Don tried to protest. 

In a few minutes, Joan was back with a tray. As Don 
jumped up and took it from her, he felt his appetite 
returning. The tray held a tall pitcher of iced lem¬ 
onade, a bowl of salad with crisp lettuce leaves and a 
plate of cheese crackers. 

“Joan, you shouldn’t have.” 

“Hush!” Joan’s expression reminded him again of 
winsome Lovlya. “I’m famished and you’re giving 


26 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

me an excuse. Being a celebrity seems to have affected 
my appetite. You serve us please.” 

Joan, leaning back in the hammock again, rested 
her head among the cushions and gazed up at the bees 
blundering lazily in the honeysuckle. “You know, 
Don, I’m especially glad that you came today. Mother 
and dad won’t approve of my idea, so I’m going 
to try it on you. It’s about this summer. I want to 
find a job.” 

“But Joan, your family always goes away for the 
summer, to Huntington Lake, or Tahoe, or Monterey. 
You’re not used to staying here through the hot 
months.” 

“They always have. Yes, and they want to send me 
this year. But they’re making excuses about going 
themselves, and I know what that means. You see, 
for a long time now, dad’s securities have been paying 
very little. And we’ve been depending almost solely 
on them.” 

Don’s face was serious as he thought for a moment. 
“I see. But after all, is the situation any more serious 
than it was last year?” 

“Yes, it is. With two of us in college, dad will have 
a double load. Hugh is doing the best he can to help, 
but a law course is pretty hard. There isn’t much time 
left over for part time jobs. I’d feel happier if I could 
at least buy my own clothes. Can you think of any¬ 
thing I might be able to do, Don?” 


2 7 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Well, if you really have your mind made up, I 
might approach dad. One of his stenographers goes 
on her vacation soon and when she comes back, the 
other will leave. So, he’ll be one short for several 
weeks. I know you were good at secretarial work in 
school.” 

Joan’s face lighted up. “Do you really think there’s 
a chance? I hadn’t dreamed of anything so grand. 
Oh, Don, I’m getting all thrilled. But suppose he says 
‘No’? Will you ask him? Right away?” 

After Don’s departure, Joan spent the rest of the 
afternoon drifting about uncertainly. It would probably 
be days before she heard from Mr. Bishop, she told 
herself. And then, his reply might be unfavorable. 
Yet, she could not bring herself to remain too far away 
from the telephone. All during dinner, a pleasant 
affair served in the rose arbor, Joan listened for its 
tinkle and felt a growing sense of importance. She 
was grown up now and capable of making decisions. 
Even though the position should not be available, at 
least she would have tried for it, would have taken the 
first step toward financial independence. A doubt as¬ 
sailed her. Should her parents be told now? Oh dear, 
it seemed impossible to keep it to herself another min¬ 
ute. And yet, how much bigger thrill it would be to 
wait until she knew positively. That is, if Mr. Bishop 
offered her the position. If he didn’t— She played 
with her spoon abstractedly, gazing off into space. 

“Joan,” her mother’s voice recalled her, “that’s your 

28 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

favorite fresh peach ice cream. I just wanted you to 
know, because I don’t believe you’ve tasted a thing 
you’ve eaten this evening.” 

Joan glanced at her, met her eyes crinkled into a 
smile and laughed. Then, on the verge of confession, 
she jumped up, excused herself and rushed toward the 
house. It was the telephone. She was sure of it as she 
reached the side door, and slammed it after her. Its 
tinkle became a command as she answered. 

“Hello?” 

“Why yes, I’m sure mother would. She’s always glad 
to give recipes. I’ll tell her right away.” 

Why did people want to call up around dinner time 
to ask such perfectly silly things ? Joan knew she was 
being unreasonable, but it relieved the tension of wait¬ 
ing, somehow, to fuss over even such an inoffensive old 
lady as Mrs. Haley. 

It was not until two days later that Joan, roused from 
a nap in the hammock, answered the phone to hear 
Mr. Bishop’s voice. He told her that Don had spoken 
to him, and invited her to drop in at his office to talk 
the matter over. 

So there was a chance! Joan cradled the receiver with 
trembling fingers and picked up her hat from the hall 
chair. She couldn’t wait, she told herself, as she hur¬ 
ried down the quiet, tree lined street; she just couldn’t 
wait the minutes that it would take to get there. Then, 
suddenly, she stopped and turned around and slowly 
retraced her steps. This would never do at all. If 


29 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

she was grown up, she must act like a mature per¬ 
son. Not come flying into Mr. Bishop’s office with 
her hair every which way, and her dress mussed, and 
not knowing at all what she was going to say. Once 
in her room, she took time and pains to make herself 
as attractive as possible; then, adjusting the pink scarf 
on her blue jacket dress, she went out again. This time, 
she turned in a different direction, and soon was riding 
up in the elevator to her father’s office. 

“Well, well, and to what do I owe the privilege of 
a visit from this dream of loveliness?” Her father 
turned at his desk and surveyed Joan with a real 
pride that belied his bantering tones. 

“Dad, a marvelous thing has happened. You’d never 
believe. I’ve got a job, dad. At least, I think I’m about 
to have one maybe.” 

“That’s worth congratulations, even with the ‘maybe.’ 
Tell us about it.” 

“Well, the other day Don was over and I told him 
I wanted to find something to do this summer. He 
spoke to his father and now I’m invited over to Mr. 
Bishop’s office to talk it over. There may be steno¬ 
graphic work there for me.” 

Mr. Whitney responded to Joan’s enthusiasm, but 
his face was troubled. “About how long do you sup¬ 
pose this work will last, Joan? I wouldn’t want it to 
interfere with your vacation. How does your mother 
feel about it? Does she think you should accept it 
at all?” 


30 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“I don’t know. And mother wasn’t home. But Dad, 
I’m not taking a vacation this year. Not if I can get 
this. Think of it! A job, earning money, buying 
my own clothes. Oh Dad, please, please don’t object.” 

Mr. Whitney could not help but respond to the 
earnestness in her face. He smiled. “All right, Joan, 
go pay your call. Perhaps after all you may not come 
to an agreement. But good luck to you since you wish 
it that way.” 

The offices of John Bishop were on the third floor 
of the old Deacon Building on Fresno Street, which 
faced the domed white Court House, graceful relic of 
the city’s early days. From the windows, one could 
see, far out beyond the roofs, the fertile country which 
produced the crops that the city depended on for 
its prosperity, or look down upon the pageantry below. 
Streams of dusty, inexpensive cars passed constantly, 
up one side of the street, down the other, with now 
and then a dark, shining one, driven by its uniformed 
chauffeur, or a gay sport model, filled with laughing 
boys and girls. On the busy sidewalks, brisk business 
men, farmers, and tired foreign women with children 
wove back and forth continuously. Twice weekly, the 
farmers and their families brought their produce to the 
free market in Court House Park. Here, while their 
wares were arranged at improvised stalls under the 
trees, the atmosphere was full of excitement and hub¬ 
bub. 


3 * 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Mr. Bishop’s offices, themselves, were old and shabby 
enough, but there was a feeling of solidity, of long¬ 
standing security, about them. Business flowed in and 
the big land deals were consummated there. In fact, 
much of Fresno’s, and the rest of the San Joaquin Val¬ 
ley’s most important legal business, was transacted 
across the worn oak desk in the inner office. Joan, 
although the Whitneys and the Bishops were life-long 
friends, had never before been there. She opened the 
door, with its prim black lettering, to be faced by two 
efficient-looking women behind desks across the room. 
She hesitated until the younger of the two glanced up 
at her. 

“Mr. Bishop is busy just now. Will you be seated?” 

Joan was glad of the chance to collect her wits and 
look about her. She had often had occasion to drop 
into the principal’s office at high school, and her father’s 
office was familiar to her, yet never before had she 
been so impressed as now. She was measuring herself 
by these two women sitting neat and cool and efficient, 
and deciding that never, never would she be able to 
take either of their places. Trying would only result 
in failure and it would really be better if she got up 
right now— 

“Mr. Bishop will see you.” The younger woman 
glanced over at her and smiled. 

At once, panic seized Joan, and then, it left her. She 
must make good. There wasn’t any other way out 
now. She must go in and succeed. 

Mr. Bishop, smiling at her across his desk, somewhat 


3 2 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

restored her poise. It was hard to think of him as 
an employer after having known him all of her life 
as a friend. The feeling was heightened by his inter¬ 
ested, personal remarks. 

“How is your family, Joan ? I’ve missed my evenings 
with them during the last couple of weeks. We’ve a big 
case coming up over some water rights and it’s kept me 
working.” 

“Dad has spoken of you several times. I think he’s 
mourning over his chess. He thinks there’s no player 
like you. But he knows you’ve been busy. Dad and 
mother are fine.” 

“And Hugh? All going well with him?” 

“Yes, thanks, Mr. Bishop. He’s so much interested 
in his work this summer. Being in the law office in 
Palo Alto is giving him some grand experience. Mother 
worries over his not having any vacation, but his letters 
sound full of pep.” 

“That’s fine. And now I hear that you don’t want 
a vacation, either.” 

“Well, I’d rather find something to do.” 

“Want to enter the business world, eh? Just how 
much secretarial training have you had?” 

At the question, all of Joan’s misgivings returned. 

“Well, I took the course at High School.” 

“Any experience?” 

For a moment, Joan was at a loss. The room seemed 
terribly quiet, as she stared up at a picture of Jefferson 
and tried to think of something, anything at all that 
she had done outside of class. 


33 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Well,” she suggested finally, “there was some typ¬ 
ing for Miss Morris in the English Department and— 
and Dad lets me type some of his specifications since he 
had to let his secretary go.” 

It sounded wholly inadequate, and for the first time 
she wished she were back in the safe little world of 
High School where you learned things instead of being 
expected to already know them. 

Mr. Bishop nodded, rose. “Come with me, Joan, and 
I’ll introduce you to Miss Hedge. You will take her 
place when she leaves next Monday. Later on, my 
secretary, Mrs. Bent, will have her vacation. Then, 
Miss Hedge will take her place.” 

“Mother! Dad!” Joan rushed up the porch steps, 
two at a time and threw herself into their arms. “He 
gave it to me—the job—Mr. Bishop. I’m to have 
twenty a week, and I’m to start Monday. Isn’t that 
wonderful? Oh, Don, I didn’t see you,” as a move¬ 
ment disclosed to her a long figure in white linen 
sprawled comfortably in the hammock. “Don, I’m 
so thrilled. You must have given your father a won¬ 
derful sales talk to have put me across.” 

“Didn’t give him any at all. Guess he just hopes 
you’re a chip off the old block.” 

“Oh goodness, it would reflect on the whole family, 
wouldn’t it, if I didn’t make good?” 

“Just what are you to do in the office, Joan?” Mrs. 
Whitney poured a glass of iced tea for her. 


34 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Why, I’m to take the place of a very nice girl, 
Miss Hedge. She speaks to people when they come in, 
and flicks a little doodad and speaks in a phone and 
tells Mr. Bishop there’s someone to see him.” 

At this, she was interrupted by a whoop from Don. 
“‘Flicks a little doodad’! That’s rich. Wait ’till I tell 
dad—” 

“Oh, Don, you wouldn’t,” Joan protested as he 
went on. 

“My dear child, I gather you’re to be at the recep¬ 
tion desk, which means making appointments and 
doing filing and copying work. And you may feel gay 
now, but I don’t envy you the filing or the copying 
either. Dad’s a whale for accuracy.” 

“Well, I’m glad you don’t. Otherwise, you might 
have taken my job this summer. Oh, and just think of 
Saturday afternoons! A salary to spend, and the stores 
loaded with grand things to buy. I won’t shop ’till 
later, though, when all the fall models are in. Then, 
I can select clothes that will be good for all winter 
at Stanford.” 

“Oh-hoh, so that’s why all the interest in a job,” Mr. 
Whitney nodded his head knowingly. “Money for 
fluffy ruffles at college. I thought at first it might be 
budding ambition for a career.” 

Joan laughed. “Of course I want fluffy ruffles. But 
there is another reason. How can I say it ? It—it makes 
me feel grown up.” 

Mrs. Whitney nodded gravely. “I think we all 


35 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

understand. You feel that you’re going to become a 
part of the world, doing instead of just preparing to 
be. Isn’t that right? When your father first told me, 
I didn’t want you to work this summer, but now he 
has convinced me that it is best for you. It’s your trial 
flight, my dear, and I know you’ll be successful.” 

# * # 

At six o’clock on Monday morning, Joan was up. 
She wanted to have plenty of time for everything; for 
the selection of the right dress, one that was crisp and 
well-tailored like those of the two women in the office, 
for a leisurely breakfast, for any last minute suggestions 
that her father might have to offer. Also she wanted 
time for the walk to town. Finally, she decided on a 
simple dark blue linen and a big blue hat. Then came 
breakfast, a meal which Mrs. Whitney insisted on 
keeping as a time for the family gathering. 

“I’ll drive you down, Joan, and Dad too, if he likes,” 
Mrs. Whitney suggested as they pushed back their 
chairs. “It’s a little warm for a constitutional.” 

Joan hesitated. “If Dad walks, I’d just as soon. I 
know what Monday morning’s like at home. You 
always say Martha needs moral support.” 

“Yes, and I suspect she gets a good deal more than 
that,” Mr. Whitney shook his head. 

A long and two short toots sounded from outside. 

“It must be Don!” Joan hurried to the door. 

“Taxi!” he called back. 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Oh, Dad,” Joan called, “he’ll take us. I know he’ll 
want to drive you too.” 

Mr. Whitney shook his head. “No use asking him to 
ramble all over the city. Besides, you know I really 
enjoy my morning walk.” 

Joan took a deep breath. “Well, it’s the big mo¬ 
ment. Wish me well. ’Bye, ’bye.” She kissed the two 
solemnly and marched out of the door and down the 
path to the waiting roadster, with a sedateness born of 
her new-found responsibility. 

“Don, I’m too excited to speak. Do I look 
right?” 

“You always look right. You haven’t the jitters, have 
you?” 

“Jitters! I’m full of them. It’s this first day. If I 
can get through this, nothing will be quite so hard 
again.” 

“Nothing will be as hard as you think anyway, 
Joan. And if it is, someone will help you. I won’t 
get out,” as he turned in at the curb. “Better to do this 
without a sponsor. Here’s luck. I’ll give you a ring 
tonight.” 

In the outer office, Joan was greeted by Mrs. Bent, 
who showed her where to hang her hat. Then, she 
seated herself at the vacant flat-topped desk. For a 
time, she listed to instructions, even making notes of 
some of them on a small pad. Don had been right 
in his estimate of her work. Presently, she settled 
down to copying briefs. When the first client called, 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

she tried to sit extra straight and speak in a crisp, 
pleasant voice. 

So the morning passed and the afternoon. Briefs 
were followed by a bit of filing, and the filing by briefs 
again. Mr. Bishop stopped for a word with her just 
before closing time, assured her that her day’s work 
was satisfactory and hoped that she would not find 
the office routine tiring. Going home that evening, 
Joan was surprised to find herself already feeling like 
a seasoned business woman. From the supervised 
routine of High School, she had graduated to the 
supervised routine of the first rung of the business 
ladder. 

# # # 

“I saw some new fall dresses in the window of 
Wise’s this morning.” Bunny and Grace and Inez 
were seated in the Whitney living room, while Joan, 
in the mellow glow from a bridge lamp, hemmed a 
peach silk slip. 

“There was a rusty red,” Grace went on, “and a 
bright red, and the most perfect green. I’d love any 
of them with brown accessories.” 

“Oh, I love green and brown.” Joan’s eyes sparkled. 
“I must see them if they’re really the new styles. I’ll 
run in after scho—I mean, business tomorrow.” 

“Well, I want the rusty red,” Grace, at the other 
end of the couch, picked up an end of the slip, “so I 
hope you do like the green. If you want me to, I’ll 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

go on hemming this and you can get at something else. 
Your work basket looks like it’s overflowing.” 

“It is,” Joan agreed gratefully. 

“Deal us each a piece,” Bunny suggested, “and we’ll 
have you in order in no time. Such ambition! How 
you find time to hold down a job and make most of 
your things for college, I fail to see,” and she sighed 
and fingered the pile. 

“Give me something fancy. I love putting lace on 
things.” Little Inez, dainty in a flowered frock, se¬ 
lected a blue batiste gown with tucking and insertion, 
and set to work. 

“Mother’s giving me a fur chubby of some kind this 
fall.” Grace, her near-sighted eyes with their horn¬ 
rimmed spectacles close to the sewing in her hand, 
carried on the popular topic of fashion. “That’s a 
sure sign I’ve finally grown up, because I’ve been beg¬ 
ging for one ever since I can remember. With acces¬ 
sories to match the coat, and one of those dresses, I’d 
have a perfect costume, what?” 

“Perfect,” agreed Mrs. Whitney, who had just en¬ 
tered. “I wish you could have a short fur coat too, 
Joan. There’d be so many uses for it in college. Well, 
my lamb, maybe some other year. We’ll call it some¬ 
thing to look forward to.” 

Joan smiled and hummed an old song that was one 
of her father’s favorites. 

“Day dreams, visions of bliss —" 

Mrs Whitney, seating herself in her favorite chair, 


39 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

reached for her knitting and rocked as the blue yarn 
took shape under her flying fingers. For a while, there 
was a preoccupied silence. Then, suddenly, she laid 
down the partly finished sweater and looked over at 
Joan. 

“Why, I just happened to think. There’s that 
sheared beaver of mine. Why couldn’t that be made 
over r 

Joan shook her head. “I couldn’t take your coat.” 

Mrs. Whitney laughed, glanced down at her well- 
rounded figure. “It’s too worn to remodel as a full 
length coat, and can you image me in a beaver 
chubby? My dear, I’d look like a big mama bear. 
Even with slenderizing lines, that coat made me look 
ample. No, thank you just the same, but I’ve my mind 
set on a well-tailored black cloth coat with back full¬ 
ness.” 

“Really mother, you actually don’t want the coat?” 
Joan was all eagerness now. “Oh, I can’t wait. Where 
is it ? I’ll go get it now.” 

“In the back of my closet in a moth-proof bag. The 
big one with the zipper.” 

In a moment, Joan was back, parading in front of 
the group and talking possibilities. “Of course, it’ll 
make a grand one. Look at these big pieces, not worn 
a bit. And the sleeves and collar can be renewed from 
the bottom of the coat.” 

“I’ll take it down to the furrier tomorrow and in¬ 
quire if you like, Joan,” Mrs. Whitney suggested. 


40 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Then, on your way home in the evening, you could 
stop in there and decide on a becoming style. Or, 
you might even go during your noon hour.” 

“Yes and afterwards, we could meet you at Wise’s, 
and we could look at dresses together.” 

“Yes, all of us. Wouldn’t that be a grand way to 
choose! Only, let’s make it the day after, so you’ll 
have plenty of time, Joan.” 

During the days toward the latter part of the sum¬ 
mer, Joan, alone in the office just around closing time, 
occupied herself with finishing up odds and ends. 
She took pride now in her ability to carry through 
any work that was given her with growing speed and 
accuracy. Her cheeks still burned at the thought of 
some of her early blunders and mistakes, and she was 
full of gratitude for Mr. Bishop’s and Mrs. Bent’s pa¬ 
tience. But she knew that she had improved. Often, 
she wondered just how much. In the work that was 
given her, there was little chance to prove her initiative. 
Did she have any? Or was she really still, in spite of 
her efforts, just a raw recruit? Almost, she was glad 
never to have had to make the trial and yet— The 
telephone buzzed at her elbow and automatically, she 
lifted it. Then almost at once, she became taut with 
excitement. 

“Hello?” 

# # # # 

“No, he has left the office.” 

# # # # 


4 1 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Long distance from Chicago? I’ll try to locate 

him for you.” 

# # # * 

“Ask him to call Chicago Operator Number Five. 
Right?” 

Joan rested her hand on the telephone, then lifted 
the receiver and gave Mr. Bishop’s home telephone 
number. After a slight delay, she learned that he was 
out. What to do? That the Chicago number meant 
an important client, she was well aware. That the 
call had come after office hours meant that it was 
urgent. She must find Mr. Bishop. Where would he 
be likely to go during the dinner hour? There might 
be a banquet at the Californian Hotel, even a small 
party. He could be paged there. 

The idea was proved fruitless. Well then, the Hotel 
Fresno. Again, no results. Well, private homes, then. 
But he was so well known in the city, so well liked. 
Better leave that long list until last. Lodges? There 
were no meetings on this night. Suddenly, an idea oc¬ 
curred to her. Absurd! But she smiled and reached 
for the telephone. In a moment, she spoke to a familiar 
voice. 

“Dad, I’m trying to locate Mr. Bishop. He doesn’t 
happen to—” 

“Bishop? Just a minute.” 

Oh, could it be ? It was. He was there. At her own 
home, playing chess and waiting for his favorite dinner 
of spare ribs and cabbage. She laughed aloud in sheer 


42 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

relief, then, hurriedly told him of the long distance call. 
“It’s Mr. Emery, isn’t it? That important client from 
Chicago? Shall I wait for you? Will you be back at 
the office? You’re to call Chicago Operator Number 
Five.” 

Now, Joan thought as she waited in the office for Mr. 
Bishop, what would Mrs. Bent be doing if she were 
here? How many times Joan had watched her as she 
collected papers preparatory to a conference, and had 
laid them all out neatly. That was what Joan must 
do now. Recklessly, she searched among files and in 
the wire basket on her neighbor’s desk. Then, carefully, 
she sorted and arranged her collection. The last paper 
was laid down and she was opening the drawer for her 
shorthand notebook when the door opened. 

“Well, mighty good of you to stay.” Mr. Bishop 
smiled on her uncertainly. “It seems you’ve been 
arranging things for me. Let’s see.” He leaned over 
the desk. Gradually, his face relaxed. He began to pick 
up a letter here, a document there. Then, with the sheaf 
in his hand, he straightened up. 

“There, I guess I’ve got everything that might be in 
question. Now, get me the operator. We’ve no time 
to lose,” and he passed into the inner office. 

Minutes later, he emerged, smiling. He patted Joan 
on the back. “Congratulations, Joan. That was good 
work. I’d no idea you had picked up so much of the 
routine. Mrs. Bent could scarcely have done better and 
she, of course, is far more familiar with my affairs. 


43 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Besides that, I admire your ability to act in an emer¬ 
gency. You saved my client a great deal of money by 
locating me. He’ll be mighty grateful for that.” 

“Well,” he reached for his hat, “let’s hurry along. 
Those spare ribs your mother is fixing ought to be done 
by now, and I could do with a few. How about you?” 

Joan was still too excited to be hungry, but as she 
slipped into Mr. Bishop’s car, she sighed. “Do you know, 
Mr. Bishop, less than an hour ago, I wanted an emer¬ 
gency of some kind to happen. And then, when it did, 
I was frightened to death. But it did prove to me that 
I have learned a lot—and that I have a lot more to 
learn.” 

“Everybody’s having that proved to him all his life 
long,” Mr. Bishop philosophized. 

As the days went by, Mr. Bishop found more and 
more to approve of in Joan. Although he had known 
the Whitney family for years, and had talked to Joan 
since her baby days, the acquaintance had been a casual 
one. He liked her level-headedness, her quick response 
in an emergency, her attractive appearance, her efficiency 
and the fact that she never presumed upon their friend¬ 
ship for favors. 

“She’s a credit to herself and to her family, too,” he 
would think to himself, “and if her brother is like her— 
Well—why not ? I’ll need someone for the place Don 
would have filled. We shall see,” and he would nod 
with satisfaction over his conclusions. 

One day toward the end of summer, Mr. Bishop de- 


44 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

tained Joan as she was leaving some papers on his desk, 
and questioned her. “How’s that brother of yours been 
coming along lately in college?” 

“Very well, Mr. Bishop.” She smiled and her eyes 
grew bright. “We’re all very proud of him. He’s— 
well,—he’s supposed to be one of the outstanding men 
there.” 

“I’ve heard a lot about football and class honors, but 
does he rank as high in scholarship as in college activi¬ 
ties?” 

“Oh, yes, Mr. Bishop. He’s third in his class. And of 
course you know that only men whose class work is up 
to standard are accepted on the team anyway.” 

“Still interested in law?” 

“It’s what he’s preparing for. But he has four more 
years at Stanford before he receives his J. D.” 

Mr. Bishop dismissed her with a nod, and then 
thought for a long time. Plans were taking shape in 
his mind that would make for the happiness of several 
people. 


45 



Chapter Three 


T here!” Joan closed the top drawer of her ward¬ 
robe trunk with finality and turned to Bunny. 
“Now everything’s in. At last! I won’t close the trunk 
’till the last minute so my dresses and coats will stay 
fresh, but it’s a grand feeling to know that I’m all ready 
to go.” 

“Yes, a grand feeling for you.” Bunny’s plump, white 
fingers deftly adjusted a snap on the green wool dress 
that Joan was to wear on the trip to Stanford. “But 
how’ll I ever live without you all this whole winter?” 

“Well,” Joan suggested philosophically, “why don’t 
you go to college too? I’ve begged you often enough. 
Of course, it’s too late for Stanford now for you have to 

46 




































JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

have your application in months ahead. But there’s 
Fresno State, or U. C.” 

Bunny yawned. “Oh, darling, my poor head! It gets 
dizzy when I even think of cramming it with zoology 
and sociology and—and—” She paused in her attempt 
to think of a few more impressive names. 

“Well, then,” Joan laughed, “take art, or law, or some¬ 
thing with a short name that won’t frighten you before 
you even get started.” 

“If it didn’t frighten me before, it would afterwards.” 
Bunny snipped a thread decisively. “Anyway, I’ll be see¬ 
ing you Christmas. There’s no use asking you to write. 
No one in college ever has time for letters. I learned 
that from my darling elder sister. There, the dress is 
ready.” 

“Thanks. It’s been grand of you, Bunny, to help me. 
I really don’t know what I would have done without 
you this last week. Mother was so busy finishing Hugh’s 
sweater, and I seemed to be dashing about every minute. 
You and your little thimble were certainly a welcome 
sight every morning.” 

“Well,” Bunny sighed, “now that you’re shipshape, I 
believe I’ll amble off home. But I’ll see you before 
you go.” 

For a moment, after the bedroom door closed on 
Bunny, Joan paused and looked around her. The room 
was bare now of all her belongings except for a picture 
or two on the walls, a pile of old letters, her travelling 
clothes on hangers in the closet and the luggage stand- 


47 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

ing ready for her departure. She remembered the jolly 
confabs with the girls, the hours of study at the green 
table before the vine-covered window. All the good 
times that she had dreamed of here, prepared for before 
the mirror of her green dressing table and looked back 
upon afterwards, crowded into her mind. A knock at 
the door brought her back to earth. 

“Come down to the porch, Joan,” her mother sug¬ 
gested with a smile, “and rest awhile in the cool air be¬ 
fore you go to bed. And I’ve made you a glass of choco¬ 
late malted milk. I don’t want you to be tired out when 
you start on your great adventure.” 

* # # 

The next day was Friday. It was warm before sun¬ 
rise, and hot by six o’clock in the morning. Joan was 
up and dressed by then. 

It was hard to eat breakfast when one was so breath¬ 
less with excitement, harder still to face good-byes that 
must last until Christmas. Joan’s heart thumped uncom¬ 
fortably for a moment at the realization that she was 
leaving all that was familiar behind. 

At the station, she stood with her parents, her bags 
beside her, listening for the oncoming train. Few peo¬ 
ple were about. She glanced at her watch. Ten min¬ 
utes to wait. They had certainly been on the safe side. 
Looking up again, she caught sight of a car, overloaded 
with boys and girls, which was drawing up to the side 
of the platform. 


4* 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Hi!” Bill Winn jumped off the running board, fol¬ 
lowed by Bunny Bangs. Inez and Grace and all the 
rest of Joan’s most cherished friends piled out and ran 
toward her. After the hubbub had subsided, Bill stepped 
forward and made a formal bow as he handed her a 
large box, gaudy in pink tissue and wide gold paper 
ribbons. 

“Joan,” he began, “I have the honor of presenting to 
you, on behalf of this delegation, a little token of our 
friendship and esteem. May it ever remain with you to 
remind you of those you have—” 

“Hi! Hurry, here’s the train!” Bubbles reached for¬ 
ward and pushed the box into Joan’s hands and Terry 
snatched up her bags, as, with last hugs for her mother 
and father and Bunny, she ran for the steps of the Pull¬ 
man. 

Breathless and confused, a moment later she was lean¬ 
ing close to the window, waving at the little group out¬ 
side. Then, as her view became obscured, Joan turned 
to settle herself for the journey. On the rack above 
rested her bags, but in her arms she still clutched the 
enormous pink box. She giggled convulsively, and then 
realized that she was attracting the attention of a girl 
seated opposite her. Well, after all, it wasn’t her fault, 
Joan told herself. She hadn’t wished the pink box on 
herself. And the thought of what it might contain was 
too interesting to speculate upon another instant. She 
pulled the ends of the big bow, whisked back the tissue 
and brought to view a box with a bakery label on it. 


49 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

The girl across from her was frankly curious now, 
but she tried to hide her interest by turning the pages 
of a new magazine. Joan lifted a corner of the cover 
and looked inside.' Then with an admiring gasp, she 
lifted it off. 

“Mmmmm,” she cried, “cake!” In her surprise, she 
had forgotten that she and her fellow-passenger were 
strangers. 

Placing the box on the floor between them, she leaned 
over and the other girl followed suit. They were both 
silent for a moment. 

“My, it’s beautiful,” the girl sighed. 

“It’s really a cake of cakes,” Joan agreed. “It seems 
dreadful ever to think of spoiling those beautiful icing 
roses and violets and blue bows and the 'Good Luck.’ ” 

“Well, perhaps. Of course, it was made to eat, though. 
My name’s Bobby Wellman. I’m on my way to Stan¬ 
ford and I’ll bet you are, too. I saw you and your gang 
before you got on.” 

“Oh, did you? Yes, I am going to Stanford. My 
name’s Joan Whitney. Are you a freshman, too?” 

“Well, yes and no. You see, this will be my third 
quarter. Butch and I entered last Christmas. Butch is 
my twin brother.” 

“I see. Then, you’re not alone.” 

“Yes, I am. Butch is driving up with friends. We’ve 
all been at Huntington Lake for the summer. I just left 
this morning. Haven’t a thing to wear, of course, but I’ll 
do my shopping in San Francisco and Palo Alto. It’s a 


50 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

wise idea, anyway, because after you’ve been in college 
a week, you know just what you want.” 

Joan thought it must be, unless one made most 
of one’s things, or, like the fur coat, had them made 
over. She reached over to where it lay, neatly folded on 
the seat beside her, in anticipation of cooler weather 
when she reached the coast, and gave it a pat. Then, 
she glanced down at the cake again. 

“Let’s celebrate. If we cut off the edge, it won’t spoil 
the frosting—much.” 

“All right. I could cut a lot of that cake without spoil¬ 
ing the frosting—much.” 

Joan reached up and pulled down her case. After 
some fumbling, she produced a shoe horn. “Do you 
think we can use this?” 

“Let’s try.” 

Carefully marking off a straight line, Joan plunged 
the shoe horn downward. The creamy frosting gave 
under its impact, but the cake remained firm. 

“Let me.” Bobby seized the horn with determination, 
but in a moment, she looked up, her face pink. “I 

don’t think we can eat that cake. It must have rocks 

• •. >> 
in it. 

“Why, it couldn’t.” Joan wiggled the horn, trying to 
pry the piece loose. The result was the same. 

“Maybe we had just better leave it until I can in¬ 
vestigate properly.” 

“I guess we’ll have to.” Bobby sighed, gave the rich 
frosting a last, long look, and leaned back. 


5 1 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Joan closed the box and set it aside. “I wonder if 
there are any more Stanfordites in this car.” 

“Yes, there are. Two that I know of. And another I 
suspect. Two seats down and facing you, see the girl 
with the brown hat with rose ribbons? Well, she was 
mentioning Stanford to the girl with her when I passed 
coming in. Then, if you sort of turn your head, you 
can see a girl with very light hair and a little black hat. 
She’s sitting with a boy who went to Stanford last year.” 

Joan glanced back discreetly and then turned to 
Bobby. “Oh, isn’t she gorgeous!” 

“Well, she surely has stunning clothes. And lovely 
hair.” Bobby leaned back, inspected her companion. 
“Tell me about yourself. We’ll probably never have so 
much time on our hands again.” 

“The most important thing just now is, of course, 
that I’m going to Stanford. I’m terribly thrilled. I’ve 
a brother there, too.” Joan could not help the note 
of pride that came into her voice when she mentioned 
Hugh. 

“Whitney. Why, not the football Whitney? My 
dear, when you were picking brothers, you took one 
right out of the show window.” 

Joan laughed. “Now, it’s your turn.” 

“Well, I’m going to college because I want to be a 
business woman. Definitely. I’m from Los Angeles 
and new ideas are popping there every day. I’ll prob¬ 
ably begin as secretary to the head of some big firm. 
When I understand business, I’ll start out for myself, 


52 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

and won’t I have fun! It’s in my blood. All my fam¬ 
ily are good at it. Even Mother has started two art 
shops, three specialty shops, and a tea room. And, 
when they were going well, she sold them out at a 
profit. But I’m going in for something bigger than 
that. What’s your ambition?” 

Joan shook her head. “I haven’t decided. But I am 
ambitious, believe me. I did stenographic work in a 
law office all summer and I liked that. I think, though, 
that something creative is more in my line. Or, creative 
work and business combined. Like, for instance, work¬ 
ing on a newspaper, or designing for some firm. I’ll 
keep an open mind for a while in college and I think 
I’ll probably drift into the right courses.” 

“Of course you will, and Stanford will help you. Or, 
in case you want a business manager, I’ll leave you my 
card.” 

Joan laughed. “I’m going to take some purely cul¬ 
tural courses, too. Political history, psychology, any¬ 
thing that makes me understand the world and peo¬ 
ple better. Hugh and Mother and Dad all suggested 
that, and Hugh marked some courses in the schedule 
that he had particularly enjoyed.” 

“Good girl! I agree with you absolutely. If I ever 
forget about culture and the world, I want you to 
remind me. Remember, you’re appointed.” 

“Look, that’s the gateway to Yosemite. Have you 
been there?” 

“Yes, and I love it. Have you?” 


53 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Yes, and ditto. Isn’t it dreadfully warm? When 
the man comes through, let’s have a lemonade.” 

“Let’s. Did you get your notices this summer, and 
your freshman bible?” 

“You mean the little book about Stanford? Yes, I 
did, and I read it from cover to cover. I’d already 
learned a lot, though, from Hugh. But I didn’t know 
that Stanford was called ‘the Farm’ because it was orig¬ 
inally Senator Stanford’s horse-breeding ranch.” 

“Yes, and that’s still the right name for it. Almost 
nine thousand acres, and most of it is hills and fields 
and forests.” 

“I know. I’ve roamed around it a bit with Hugh.” 

“Of course. You live in Fresno, don’t you?” 

“Yes, and you, South.” 

“In the San Fernando Valley. We’ve a rambling 
farm house. It looks old but it is new. Father fancies 
himself a real farmer with four dogs, an aviary and a 
dozen espaliered fruit trees.” 

Over the arid country the train sped, shrieking 
around corners, slowing into towns, until at last the 
burning heat of the Valley gave place to a cool breeze 
from the ocean. Reaching the Oakland Terminal they 
changed for the ferry ride across the Bay to San Fran¬ 
cisco. The world seemed silver now, with the sun 
glinting on the Bay, on the tall aluminum painted 
columns of the bridge, and on the fog banks beyond 
the Golden Gate. From the city, the trip down the 
Peninsula would be a short one. 


54 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Through the changes, the girls remained together, 
Joan still clutching the big box with its strange con¬ 
tents. Landmarks faded away as she left San Fran¬ 
cisco. She was not sure now where she was. 

“Palo Alto! Palo Alto!” The brakeman passed 
down the aisles and threw open the doors to the vesti¬ 
bules. Slowly, the train drew to a standstill. Most of 
the passengers were making ready to leave. Joan rose 
to her feet, tense with excitement. Through the win¬ 
dows, she could see a crowd of girls and men in front 
of the station. Hugh would be among them. Already, 
her eyes were searching for him, confident that his 
blond head would be visible above those of his fel¬ 
lows. Finally, she reached the platform, stepped to the 
ground, her eyes dancing in spite of her efforts to ap¬ 
pear dignified and worldly-wise. Six months since she 
had seen Hugh! It was impossible to wait another min¬ 
ute. And there he was! No. Yes! 

“Oh, Hugh!” In an instant, she was in his arms, her 
new grownup-ness lost in her old role of little sister. 

“Hugh, it’s so good to see you. And you look grand. 
Hugh, is it true that I’m here?” 

“I hope so, Sis. It’ll be swell having you around.” 

“And Don,” as she caught sight of the familiar dark 
face over Hugh’s shoulder. “I wasn’t looking for you. 
I thought you’d be too busy getting settled at En- 
cina. 

“Plenty time for that. I stayed over with Hugh last 
night, you know.” 


55 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Suddenly, she remembered Bobby, and turned about 
to find her. But Bobby, however, had vanished. 
Whether diplomacy, or the appearance of Butch had 
prompted her, she was by now, evidently, on her 
way to Stanford. Joan felt sure she would see her 
later. 

Hugh picked up Joan’s bags and guided her to a 
roadster while Don ran back with her baggage checks, 
and at last, the three were settled in the car and Hugh 
turned it into the main street. Almost immediately, 
they left Palo Alto, crossed the highway and passed 
through impressive sandstone gates into the broad 
palm-fringed drive that led straight toward the Campus 
of Stanford. Opening up before them was a broad 
vista of ruddy, tiled roofs and buff walls and arches 
framed by lawns and trees and dominated by the 
Chapel front, glowing with its mosaic Sermon on the 
Mount. Reaching Encina, the men’s dormitory, they 
dropped Don. Finally skirting the Campus, they ar¬ 
rived at a large, Italian-type building, isolated from 
the other buildings in its own grounds. This was Roble 
Hall where Joan was to live. 

Roble, on Joan’s approach, presented an appearance 
of beehive activity. Cars backed and filled, searched 
for parking space. Taxis dropped their passengers and 
hurried away. At the door, she became one of a group 
which was entering. 

Hugh paused to deposit her luggage by the door as 
she stepped inside. For a moment, she wanted to turn 

56 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

back to him and away from the crowded room with its 
hum of excitement. So many faces, all strange to her. 
So many people intent upon the business of becoming 
adjusted. Hugh joined her just as she was being 
greeted by a girl with a friendly face. 

“Are you new here? I’m Betty Presley. How do 
you do?” At Joan’s introduction of herself and her 
brother she included Hugh in a hearty handshake. 

“Now, I want you to meet our House Director.” 
She guided the two through the crowd to where a 
white haired woman in blue silk stood, the center 
of a group. 

“Whitney?” Mrs. Willis smiled on Joan and her 
brother. “The name is quite familiar to me. I’ve a 
nephew here in Stanford who keeps me in touch with 
news of his associates. So, I know that Mr. Whitney 
was President of the Sophomore Class, and last year, 
was Student Body President. Then, too, I’m quite a 
football fan. I don’t often attend games, but I do en¬ 
joy my knitting and the radio. So I’ve heard much of 
Mr. Whitney’s prowess. It’s often left me quite breath¬ 
less.” 

She turned back to Joan. “I hope you’ll be very 
happy with us, Miss Whitney. I think the entering 
girls who have brothers or sisters already here are espe¬ 
cially fortunate—” 

The conversation was cut short by the efforts of two 
boys who were attempting to move a trunk past them. 
Hugh drew Joan aside, and then the two, after an 


57 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

added word with the Director, followed Joan’s greet¬ 
ing committee member into a room to the left of the 
lobby. Here, over a desk, Joan gave interminable in¬ 
formation about herself. Her name, her age, her re¬ 
ligion, and what seemed a hundred and one notes for 
the House Director’s files. Then, at last, she was 
handed a room number. 

“Hi!” Someone touched her sleeve. 

“Bobby! I lost sight of you at the station.” 

“Well, Butch came along and he’s not a man to 
wait. Besides, he was taxiing a dozen boys up to En- 
cina and they seemed in a hurry. I knew I’d find you 
here. And Hugh, how are you? What’s your num¬ 
ber, Joan? Maybe we’re neighbors. I’ve got Matthew 
on the third floor to the right.” 

A glance at Joan’s slip of paper and Bobby shook 
her head. “No such luck. But you’re not far away.” 

“But Bobby, ‘Matthew’?” 

Bobby laughed and Hugh, who knew many of 
Roble’s customs and expressions, chuckled too. 

“Why,” Bobby explained, “on second and third floor 
there are suites of three bedrooms and bath, each with 
a door leading into a private hall. We call them 
Matthew, Mark and Luke, and the bathroom, John. I 
had my name in for one this summer and got it. Did 
you send in a preference?” 

“No. I didn’t know enough about Roble for that.” 

“Well, I want to find out who my suite-mates are. 
See you later.” 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Betty Presley was waiting for Joan on her return 
to the lobby, and guided her up two flights and down 
a corridor to her room, while Hugh, with a boy to 
help him, followed, carrying Joan’s luggage. In the 
third floor corridor, the group was met by a very effi¬ 
cient looking girl with sandy hair drawn straight back 
into a twist. 

“Joan, this is May Helm, your sponsor,” Betty ex¬ 
plained. 

Introductions acknowledged, May consulted a list of 
rooms and occupants, told Joan where she might get 
her room key and pay a deposit for a pillow, and then 
went off to join another newly-arrived group. 

It was a small room that Joan entered, with a closed 
door on either side and a window opposite the door 
leading to the hall. A desk, a bed couch, and a chair 
made up its furnishings while a long shelf with a 
curtain served as a closet. A small room and a plain 
one, but to Joan, it was lent enchantment by the fact 
that it was a part of Stanford. The luggage disposed 
of, Hugh sat down on the couch. Idly twirling the 
curtain pull, he looked out of the window. 

“Pretty good view, Sis. You won’t miss much in this 
room. Lucky they didn’t put you in a room facing 
toward the back. Have you got your bearings?” 

Joan came and sat beside him. “Over there a little 
toward the right are the Campus buildings,” she half 
inquired. 

“Right. And gazing in front of you, on the walk 


♦ 


59 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

below, you can get the low-down on all the dates 
coming to and going from Roble.” He rose. “Come 
on, let’s go down. The Axe Society is over at Encina 
now doing its bit and that’s where I belong. The 
new men were coming in there pretty fast when I 
left.” 

“Axe Society. That’s that new service club you wrote 
about, isn’t it? Well, goodness, if the freshman over 
there know as little as I do, Hugh, the lads shouldn’t 
be deprived of your help.” 

When they were again down in the lobby, Hugh led 
Joan to where Bobby stood with a group of girls. “I’ll 
leave you in good hands. I’ve known Bobby and her 
brother ever since they first came here. He’s up at the 
house a good deal.” 

Bobby smiled. “Joan and I are old friends. We got 
acquainted this morning over a cake.” 

“What! Have you got a food complex, too? I 
thought maybe that was confined to Butch. Well, Sis, 
good luck. I’ll give you a ring as soon as I’m free,” 
and, with a pat on her shoulder, Hugh was gone. 

“Joan, I’ve just managed to round up my neighbors. 
Joan Whitney, this is Dixie Calhoun—and Geneve 
Anderson.” 

From the moment that she had joined Bobby, Joan 
had been aware of the blond girl in black. She was 
the girl Bobby had indicated to Joan that morning on 
the train. Now she was meeting her. Joan caught her 
breath. Geneve was even lovelier than she had sus- 


60 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

pected from the first brief glimpse. The tiny black 
hat with its broad ribbons down the back emphasized 
the fairness of her hair and skin. The simple black 
wool dress accented her well-poised figure. On her 
shoulder, a great bunch of Parma violets matched her 
eyes. Joan became suddenly conscious that her own 
nose was shiny and that, still breathless from the rush 
and confusion, she had forgotten to stand straight. It 
was an unpleasant thought, and it suddenly made her 
feel tired and inadequate. Dixie smiled at her. 

“We’ll all be seeing lots of one another. Your suite’s 
next door to ours, Bobby says. You don’t rate a private 
hall with yours, but you’ll be comfortable. That is, 
unless you’ve drawn the center room.” 

“I have drawn the center room. Why?” 

“Well, you see,” Dixie went on to explain, “the 
suites used to consist of two bedrooms with a sitting 
room between. That was when there were only five 
hundred girls in Stanford. Now that we’re a thou¬ 
sand, they’ve had to use all the rooms they can find 
to accommodate us. That’s why your room has no 
clothes closet or wash bowl. My sister used to live in 
Roble, so I know all about it.” 

“Well, never mind, Joan,” Bobby was consoling, 
“you’ll never be lonesome with someone on each side 
of you. And you can use their wash bowls—” 

“Joan,” it was Betty Presley, “I’ve discovered one of . 
your suitemates. Selma Bogart, this is Joan Whitney.” 

Standing next to the sleek elegance of Geneve, Selma 


61 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

made a study in contrasts. She was an Italian type, with 
soft dark hair falling loose and held away from her face 
by a narrow red ribbon. She wore a full pleated skirt 
and a little white blouse tucked in. Joan could discover 
no trace of makeup on her face. It was fresh as a 
camellia. Probably due, Joan thought, to an obviously 
placid disposition. Or maybe she had just arrived. No 
ordinary person could have come through this after¬ 
noon at Roble looking like that. 

Selma extended her hand. “I’m so glad to meet you. 
I promise to try not to be a nuisance. With my entrance 
door in your room, it’ll be hard, won’t it?” 

“I think it’ll be grand,” Joan smiled. “I wish I knew 
who our other suite-mate is to be.” 

“So do I. I guess she hasn’t come yet.” 

“How about going upstairs now, gals, and getting a 
bit straightened out?” 

In accord with Bobby’s suggestion, the five went arm- 
in-arm up to their rooms. 

“I’m dead,” Selma yawned. “I guess its change of 
climate, or something. I’m from Portland. After a 
snooze, I’ll be much better company,” and she dropped 
down on her bed in a careless rumpled little heap and 
shut her eyes. 

Joan closed her door softly so that her efforts at un¬ 
packing would not disturb Selma. Then, she noticed 
that the door into the room opposite was open. At a 
slight sound from the other side, she knocked gently, 
and peeped around the corner. A small girl in a travel- 


62 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

ling suit was curled up on the bed writing a letter, and 
mopping her eyes with a very damp ball of a handker¬ 
chief. They introduced themselves and, at Joan’s ques¬ 
tioning look, Yvonne immediately blurted out her 
trouble. 

“Oh, Joan, I’m so homesick! I’m writing Mother 
and Dad right away for permission to go back to 
Garrettville. Everything’s so strange here, and there 
isn’t a person I know, and s-sitting in this room is 
t-terrible. It’s just terrible!” She burst into another 
shower of tears. 

“But, Yvonne, you’re not alone now,” Joan reminded 
her. “You’ll have me right in the next room with an 
open door between. And we’ll be together a lot. 
Weren’t you introduced to some of the girls down¬ 
stairs?” 

“Oh, a few. But I ran up here as soon as I could. I’m 
not used to meeting strange people. In Garrettville—” 
and she dropped her head into her hands. 

“I’m terribly sorry. Suppose you tell me something 
about yourself, and then, if you like, I’ll tell you about 
me. Here, let’s have a bite and maybe you’ll feel 
better.” 

Joan pulled out some cellophane bags from a suitcase, 
and the two nibbled nuts and dates and sweet graham 
crackers, while they exchanged information about them¬ 
selves. 

“Shall we unpack now?” Joan questioned, later. 

Obedient to the suggestion, Yvonne rose and searched 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

in her bag for her trunk key. Joan, returning to her 
room, began to open trunk and grips. 

Yvonne soon appeared in the doorway and glanced 
around. “What lovely things. And what a beautiful 
coat.” Going over to the bed, she stroked the silky fur. 
“How lucky you are. I’ve a fox fur, but I’d love to have 
a chubby like this.” 

Joan smiled, glanced at Yvonne’s trim new suit. “I 
know you must have all sorts of nice clothes. May I 
come see?” 

Soon, the two were busily at work on Yvonne’s ward¬ 
robe. Yvonne unpacked and Joan hung the garments 
in the closet as she exclaimed with admiration over 
Yvonne’s good taste. Yvonne, she could see, was well 
supplied with everything she could possibly need, and 
with many luxuries. 

The contents of trunks and grips disposed of, Yvonne 
settled herself at her desk to write a more optimistic 
letter. Joan, warm and tired, finished straightening her 
own room and then prepared for a shower. Later, fresh 
and relaxed, she lay down on the couch by her window 
for a moment of rest. The air, however, although balmy 
with Indian summer, was electric with a tonic quality 
usual near the Northern California coast. Sleep was 
impossible. In addition, she knew that under the quiet 
and peace of her surroundings smouldered a suppressed 
excitement which would soon bubble up and absorb her 
in its thrilling activity. She was ready for it, attuned and 

64 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

waiting, and wondering just how long it would take to 
reach her, when a knock sounded on the door. 

Joan sprang up hurriedly, smoothed her hair and 
called, “Come in.” 

The door opened to admit May Helm. At Joan’s 
invitation, she sat down, and looked about her. 

“Joan, you’ve done wonders for this room already. 
Someone must have told you just what to bring. Or 
else, you’ve been reading your Freshman Handbook. I 
love the soft greens and yellows in your draperies. And 
this darling little tea table! How on earth did you ever 
carry it? Oh, I see. It folds up. And the cute little 
crackle-ware tea set!” 

“I’m going to get some braided rag rugs in Palo 
Alto,” Joan explained. “It seemed so much easier than 
sending them.” 

“Isn’t this an interesting picture!” May Helm stepped 
close to an excellent framed print on the wall. “As a 
math major I ask you, what is it?” 

“Why, it’s Van Gogh’s Haystac\. It’s so vibrant 
and alive that I love it.” 

“I do, too. It’s a grand thing to live with. All those 
golden tones. Especially on a rainy day. 

“Joan,” she interrupted her train of thought, “are 
you and Yvonne and Selma coming down to the 
sponsors’ tea? It’s started already.” 

“Oh, goodness,” Joan glanced at herself in the mirror 
with dismay, “I’d forgotten all about it. Or did I ever 

65 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

know? Selma went to sleep, and Yvonne will probably 
have to be persuaded.” 

“I know. I’ll go see Yvonne, if you’ll wake Selma. 
There’s time, because it’s three-thirty now and the tea 
lasts until five.” 

“Grand, and I’ll hurry.” 

Joan selected a soft light dress and was just combing 
her curls and chatting with Selma, who had decided not 
to change, when the call bell in her room sounded. 

“Oh, I know, it’s my brother.” She turned to May, 
just opening the door from Yvonne’s room. “He’s plan¬ 
ning to come over. When shall I tell him I’ll be free ?” 

“Five to six,” May hastened to advise her. 

When the three girls returned to the lobby, all was 
quiet and in order there. The hubbub had been suc¬ 
ceeded by more gracious sounds, the tinkle of tea things, 
and a patter of conversation. Joan and the rest of the 
freshmen met the sponsors informally and so gained 
their first acquaintance with upper class college women. 

“Will you always live with us at the Hall?” Joan 
asked May hopefully. She liked these gracious girls 
who were succeeding so admirably in their efforts to put 
the freshmen at ease, to make them feel themselves 
already a part of Stanford. And especially, she liked 
May with her straightforward manner. 

“Only for one quarter. You see, the junior sponsors 
are here just for the fall quarter. Senior sponsors stay 
two quarters, fall and winter. In spring, Roble is self- 
governing. There will be no sponsors here then at all. 


66 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Then next fall, Women’s Conference will appoint a 
new group. These may be chosen from any group living 
on the campus. I’m from Lagunita Court.” 

“Well, r m glad you’ll be here for a while, anyway,” 
Yvonne sighed. “Someone’s got to be around to give me 
good advice. I’ve never been away from my family 
before.” 

“Joan, someone for you.” A tall girl, in a white 
angora sweater and plaid jersey skirt, and with freckles 
across her short nose, made the announcement. 

“Oh, thanks. It must be my brother,” she explained 
to the group with whom she had been talking, as she 
set down her tea cup. Then, glancing after her 
messenger, who was disappearing across the room, “Isn’t 
she an attractive girl!” 

“Yes. She’s Sandra Hollister. Rooms on your floor, 
I believe. She loves horses. Rides in Gymkhanas. Oh, 
and I think she has a pilot’s license.” 

Excusing herself, Joan made her way toward the door 
and out to where Hugh stood waiting. The two found 
seats overlooking the terraced lawns and the drive, and 
sat for a moment relaxed. Joan leaned back and looked 
at her brother appraisingly. How tremendously proud 
she was of him. Not just of his athlete’s figure, dis¬ 
ciplined by years of football and golf and tennis and by 
months at the Varsity training table, but of the man 
that he was making of himself. Four more years and 
he would be out in the world, battling for a place in 
it. The going would be hard, but he would succeed. 

67 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Hugh,—” Then, she paused. Hugh was regarding 
her just as she had him. They both laughed. 

“I hope it was flattering,” she answered his look. 
“Wait, I’ll tell you. ‘Well, so my little sister is growing 
up. Do I like her this way?’ ” 

“Yes, you do! Anyway, neither of us can help it. 
Hugh, it’s been the grandest day. I’m all settled,” and 
Joan was launched on an account of new friends and 
new interests. As they talked, going from college topics 
to news of Fresno and their family, the hum of con¬ 
versation from the lobby finally died away. 

“Tea’s over I guess,” Joan announced hopefully. 
“I’ve been waiting to go up and get all the packages 
Mother and Dad sent you. I didn’t want to carry them 
through the crowded room.” 

She was gone, to greet Hugh a few moments later 
with her arms filled with packages. He jumped up to 
help her. 

“Pretty good weather we’re having for Christmas.” 

“Well, this does look a little festive, doesn’t it? Just 
put them here on the pavement by our chairs. Be sure 
to open these right away. Mother made your favorite 
date bars. That’s the round tin. And the big soft 
one is a sweater she’s been knitting since June. Then, 
Mr. Bishop insisted on giving Dad that law book you 
need. I’m afraid I was the guilty one. I was dusting 
off the books in his office one day this summer and I 
said, ‘Oh, this is the book Hugh has us all watching out 
for. Sometimes, second hand bookstores get them.’ Of 


68 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

course, I never dreamed—and I wouldn’t accept it 
when he offered it to me. But he got around Dad 
later, some way. Probably said he had six more at 
home, or something.” 

“I was surprised, Sis, that you were working in his 
office. Was it necessary?” 

“I think so, Hugh. It’s a year since you’ve been 
home, or you’d understand. Of course, when we came 
down here last spring, everyone was in a party mood. 
But I do know that they worry.” 

Hugh’s face was serious. “I’m sorry Dad’s business 
hasn’t picked up yet. But don’t try to earn anything 
here. Especially while you’re new. College is a full¬ 
time job just now. I’m going to keep on with the work 
in Palo Alto. Do as much of it as I can, anyway.” 

He laid his arm around her shoulder for a moment, 
and then gathered up his bundles. 

“Surely have everything I need now,” he laughed, 
“and I mean it. That law book. And look!” He turned 
his arm so that she could see where his sweater had 
worn thin at the elbow. 

“Mother was just in time, wasn’t she? I’m sorry 
you have to hurry. I guess it’s almost time for dinner, 
though, isn’t it?” 

At the door, she stood for a long moment after he 
had left her, watching his straight figure swinging 
along down the drive and vanishing into the early fall 
dusk as he turned toward Fraternity Row. 

The girls were already gathering for dinner as Joan 

69 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

entered. Bobby, wise in the ways of Roble, led the 
group to the seating chart, posted on the bulletin 
board. They looked it over hopefully. 

Bobby sighed. “Were all miles away from each other, 
but at least, most of us are in the same room. For just 
one of us to have been parked in the other diningroom 
would have been fatal.” 

Later, Joan found herself at a table with a new and 
unfamiliar group. Even the sponsor who played hostess 
there was not known to her. She felt a bit uncomfort¬ 
able and, looking about the room, discovered that the 
groups at the rest of the tables also seemed tense and 
formal. Across the room, Bobby appeared to be eating 
unconcernedly, but with her eyes on her plate. Yvonne, 
close by, looked as if she were about to burst into tears 
again and Geneve, at May’s table, seemed utterly re¬ 
mote. Then, as the prune whip was being served, a name 
crossed the silence. “Saxon.” How odd! Joan raised 
her head, glanced across the table at the speaker. 

“Saxon, a cookie?” That was ah, but enough to direct 
her attention to a tall girl opposite. Her eyes lingered 
appraisingly. Her first impression was of a girl who 
must have had few of the advantages of life; her second 
saw past the ill-fitting blouse, the reddened hands, to a 
glimpse of a personality and a beauty that were arresting. 

Mrs. Willis, at the head table, rose just then, giving the 
signal for the rest to follow. 

The girls, as they left the dining halls, gathered in the 
lobby for a brief talk to be given them on social regula- 


70 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

tions. Joan, curled up on one of the semi-circular 
couches in front of the fireplace, listened to the speaker 
with real interest. The “Do’s” and “Don’t’s”, she found, 
left her less impressed than did the general spirit of 
the talk. 

“All of one’s actions at Stanford are based upon a 
spirit of honor. The way we work and study, our social 
conduct, depend upon personal honor. The self-govern¬ 
ment, delegated you by the University, gives you power, 
but it also gives you responsibility. The responsibility 
of maintaining these high standards for yourself and 
helping others to do likewise. 

“Students are expected to show, both within and 
without the University, such respect for order, morality, 
personal honor and the rights of others, as is demanded 
of good citizens. 

“We also ask you to maintain a spirit of equality. 
Excessive spending of money, the development of ex¬ 
clusive or undemocratic castes within the University, 
would be running counter to its principles.” 

“Let’s all go for a walk now. We’ll sleep better,” 
Dixie suggested later. “I don’t know where, though. 
They say the lake’s only a hole in the ground this time 
of year.” 

“I think I’d better write a letter,” Joan stifled a yawn. 
“And I don’t need a walk to put me to sleep. I’d take 
one if it would keep me awake.” With a “Good night,” 
she left the group and went up to her room. 


7 1 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Taking paper and pen from her desk, she had just 
started to write when a knock at the door was followed 
by Bobby’s piquant little face, peering around it. She 
slipped in, glanced about to see that they were alone, 
and closed it after her. 

“Joan, what in heck do you suppose was the matter 
with that cake, anyway?” 

At the mention of the gift cake and the sight of 
Bobby’s serious face, Joan suddenly burst into uncon¬ 
trollable laughter. She covered her face with her hands, 
dropped to the edge of the bed where she sat rocking 
with mirth. Each time she looked at Bobby, who stood 
eyeing her with disapproval, her laughter became more 
violent. 

“Of course, if you don’t care to investigate, why—or 
maybe you already have.” Bobby turned to go. 

“Oh, no,—no! Please stay. I—I don’t know why it’s 
so f-funny, but it is.” Joan, with a valiant effort, con¬ 
trolled her giggles. 

“Well, I’m starved. Let’s get the old thing out again.” 

The cake was finally laid on the table, resting on its 
pasteboard base, and Bobby, a dinner knife in her hand, 
set to work in earnest. 

The results were the same. 

Joan tried, too. Finally, as she bore down hard, the 
knife slipped, pushing a part of the frosting away. The 
two looked closely at the exposed section. It was bright, 
shining tin! 


7 2 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

What was it Bill Winn had said to her in his presenta¬ 
tion speech ? Something about its ever remaining with 
her as a souvenir. Well, as far as eating it was con¬ 
cerned, it surely would. 

“Shall we eat the frosting?” 

“No, let’s leave it as it is, I’ll put it on my shelf. 
There’s room and it might be useful some time.” 

Bobby sat, disappointment written on her face, as 
Joan, balancing on a suitcase, lifted the cake in its box. 
The next instant the suitcase, up-ending, slipped from 
beneath her feet. Joan clutched at the shelf and the 
curtain as she and boxes and clothes came spilling down 
together. 

“Oh, are you hurt?” Bobby was on her knees beside 
her. Seeing that Joan was unharmed, she turned to look 
at the debris. 

“Why,—what—! Why Joan, where on earth! If I’d 
known you had cookies like these!” 

Joan sat up and stared. The floor was spangled with 
little circles and half moons and stars, white with 
icing and gay with colored decorations. Suddenly, with 
a shriek of laughter, she pointed toward a corner of the 
room. 

“Oh, Bobby, look! The old tin cake. It was a box of 
cookies. It’s still almost full.” 

Later, after Bobby had gone, Joan, munching a final 
citron-decked star, seated herself again at her desk 
and picked up her pen. 


73 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 
Dear Mother and Dad, 

This is a wonderful place. It'll take just ages to 
tell you — 

Yvonne, returning later from a fudge session with a 
new friend, found Joan still at the desk, her head on her 
arm, fast asleep. 


\ 


74 



Chapter Four 


T he chimes from the bell tower close at hand 
awakened Joan the next morning. Could that be 
seven o’clock? With a bound, she was out of bed and, 
bath robe drawn hastily about her, was running for the 
shower. Selma had just finished dressing when Joan 
returned to her room. A few minutes later the two, 
with Yvonne tagging after, were on their way down the 
stairs to the dining hall. Seven fifteen wasn’t so very 
early for breakfast, except when it followed a day as 
long and as exciting as Friday had been. 

Joan discovered a vacant seat next to Saxon and 
slipped into it with a thrill of interest. Soon she in¬ 
troduced herself and Saxon did likewise. 

“Aren’t you excited over today?” 


75 












JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Of course.” Saxon’s eyes were as bright as Joan’s. 
“It’s the beginning of our college life. I’ll go around 
the campus today for the first time. And when my 
study card is made out and signed, I’ll feel that I belong 
to Stanford. Think of it! Our campus. Our Uni¬ 
versity. It’s what I’ve been waiting for for years.” 

Joan nodded. “That’s just how I feel, too. Have you 
any idea of what courses you want to take, or what you 
want your major to be ?” 

“Yes, education. I want to be a teacher.” 

“But Saxon, why?” The idea of teaching had never 
especially appealed to Joan. 

“Well, because I like children. I think it would be 
interesting to have them around me and to feel that 
I was helping to build them into fine men and women. 
Later, I might even teach in a college. I’d still be 
carrying out the same idea.” 

“I hadn’t thought of teaching in just that way,” Joan 
admitted. “You do make it sound attractive. I’d love 
to hear more of your plans. Will you come see me 
some time?” 

“I’d love to. And will you visit me? I’m on the 
second floor. A wing. In a room by itself.” 

“Mine’s on the third. Don’t forget.” 

The girls exchanged room numbers and drifted, arm 
in arm, into the lobby. 

“Hoo-hoo!” Yvonne, standing in the doorway with 
Selma, signalled to Joan. As she spoke, Bobby and 
Geneve joined them. Saxon drew back. 

76 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“I’ve things to do in my room, Joan. I’ll sec you some 
other time.” 

“Gals,” Bobby was advising her proteges, “we’d 
better stick together today. If we separate, we never 
will find each other again. Remember, assembly at 
nine, conference groups after. Campus tours at—ah—” 
she pulled a rumpled slip of paper from her pocket and 
consulted it, “at two-thirty, jolly-up at nine-thirty to¬ 
night. We should leave this morning at twenty after 
eight so you can get your boxes at the post office.” 

“Bobby,” Dixie, joining the group, squeezed her arm, 
“it’s grand of you to take such an interest in us freshies.” 

“Yes,” Joan agreed, “how would we ever get along 
without you!” 

“How’d I ever get along without you, you mean. 
Most of my old pals from here are up the Row this 
fall, so I only see them now and then. Maybe next 
year I’ll be joining them there. They may pave the 
way for me. I suppose you’ll all be joining sororities, 
too. Wouldn’t it be grand if we all belonged to the same 
one!” 

As they talked, the girls locked arms and strolled out 
into the sunshine. With time on their hands, they 
drifted down the drive. 

“I do hope you get what you want.” Joan had heard 
that Bobby, with not much time to make herself known 
during the January rushing season had not received the 
bid she wanted. So she had preferred not to accept 
any. 


77 



JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“You know,” Bobby really became serious, “some¬ 
times I wonder if I’d care to live up the Row after all. 
It’s pretty swell right here.” 

“Just the same, I think a sorority would be lots of 
fun,” Dixie answered her. “My sister was a Gamma 
and she had a grand time. Of course, there are a few 
of the women you don’t like, but most of them, you do. 
You study with them and play with them and borrow 
their finger-nail polish. And go on double dates. I 
only hope I’m rushed.” 

“Well, you do all of those things here, too. I’ve 
lived in the Hall two quarters, so I know. And if you 
lose a few friends to the Row, you can soon find others 
to take their places.” 

“I think Dixie is right, Bobby,” Geneve’s voice was 
firm. “A sorority takes a more personal interest in you. 
For instance, they say the women leads for shows have 
come from the Alpha House for two years now. That 
isn’t accidental. They choose girls with possibilities and 
then they push them along. You’re given all kinds of 
opportunities in a sorority. And then too, your social 
standing is better.” 

“My social standing’s quite all right as it is, that is 
if you judge it by my friends. However, I don’t want 
you to think I’m taking this attitude just in case I may 
not be rushed. Sororities have their points, I admit. 
They’re smaller and more intimate, for them as likes 
that.” 

“Oh, I’m sure that would be nice,” Yvonne sighed. 

7 5 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“It’d be much more like a home. But there’s such a 
small chance of being asked.” 

“Yes, they can only take about one-fourth of the 
women I hear,” Joan agreed. “I think I’d like to be 
in a smaller group, too, but if I don’t make a sorority, 
there are places like Elm and Mariposa that are the 
same size. And one doesn’t have the bother of annual 
rushing, or house duties there.” 

“Selma, haven’t you a word to say?” Joan was in¬ 
terested to know where her suitemate stood. 

“Well, of course, I know that here on this campus, 
there’s a lot of debate about sororities, pro and con. 
But, I’ll have to be here a little longer before making 
up my mind. It’s all very interesting, though.” 

“Yes,” Bobby agreed, as they entered Roble again, 
“we don’t have to decide for months. My watch says 
twenty after eight. Just time to run upstairs for our 
bags. And be sure your pens are filled.” 

At nine, Joan and the rest entered the basket ball 
pavilion and found seats for the Welcoming Assembly. 
This was the first time that the class had all gathered 
together and Joan looked about her with interest. Don 
was, she knew, somewhere among the groups of men 
already seated, or just entering. And, of course, many 
of the girls she had already met. 

Yet on the whole, the large hall, filling so rapidly, 
held for her only unfamiliar faces. 

As the President of the Associated Students held up 
his hand for silence, a hush fell over the assemblage. 


79 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Joan and her friends listened intently to his brief words 
of welcome, followed by those of the Vice-President. 

Then came the various coaches, and—why, wasn’t 
that—? It was! Hugh! He was going to talk. Joan 
was thrilled. Oh, how her mother and father would 
have loved to be here at this moment. Well, she would 
write and tell them all about it. 

Poised and friendly, his shoulders broad under the 
Varsity sweater, Hugh, as football captain for the 
coming year, welcomed the new students. He hoped 
they would take from Stanford knowledge and inspira¬ 
tion, and would give back to her loyalty and an interest 
in helping and encouraging their fellows. This was 
a hard year for football on the campus. Many of 
Stanford’s finest players had been graduated the previ¬ 
ous spring. It was up to the students to encourage those 
who had taken their places, and to give them the spirit 
again to make Stanford’s a winning team. 

Joan, when she and the others finally rose to sing, felt 
a deeper note in her voice, a new enthusiasm that was 
to grow stronger with each year of her stay at Stanford. 

“Oh, dear, just think, classes haven’t started and yet 
we’ve got to have a test. It just seems like they’ve begun 
the quarter backwards.” Yvonne twirled her pen in her 
fingers nervously, as the group quitted the pavilion and 
turned toward Memorial Hall. 

“Just a reading test,” Bobby encouraged her, “any¬ 
body can pass that. They want to find out how fast you 


80 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

read and how much of it you can remember. Save your 
jitters for later on in the quarter. You’ll need ’em.” 

“Hi!” She waved at someone in the distance. “That 
was Butch. But he’s with a couple of boys.” 

The girls found the reading test much as Bobby had 
described it and no one was greatly worried as they 
handed in their books and quitted the room. 

“Now, have you all got your slips with the names of 
your academic advisors?” Bobby questioned them, with 
a maternal note in her voice. 

Joan giggled. “Bobby, I agree. You certainly are go¬ 
ing to be a grand secretary some day. I can just picture 
you telling the president of some steel corporation what 
day his appointment is to have his hair cut.” 

Bobby grinned at her just as Yvonne exclaimed, “Oh, 
girls, I haven’t any slip. All I can find is one that 
says ‘For furniture rentals, see Holcombes in -’ ” 

“Yvonne! Here, give me that bag!” Desperation 
shone in Bobby’s eyes. “You’ve got to have that slip. 
We haven’t time to go running all around for informa¬ 
tion. Here!” and triumphantly she lifted out a small 
piece of paper. 

“Oh, where was it?” Yvonne looked much as an 
average audience does just after the professor of magic 
has pulled the rabbit from the hat. 

“Just there, that’s all, in your bag. Come on.” 

It was ten o’clock when Joan found herself part of a 
group facing their academic advisor. 


81 



JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

A tall, gray, thoughtful man, he succeeded, with 
very few words, in familiarizing them with lower 
division requirements. 

“Lower division,” he explained, “consists of the first 
and second years of the University curriculum. Certain 
subjects are required during these years. The work is 
divided into three groups; first, arts and letters; second, 
natural sciences and mathematics; third, social sciences. 
Every student must take at least fifteen units in each of 
the groups. 

“An average grade of C is required before the student 
can be given Upper Division standing. 

“The selection of a major subject will ordinarily 
be made at the end of the second year. However, 
Lower Division students may make this selection at 
the beginning of any quarter.” 

Following the group conference came the individual 
discussions, for which Joan waited her turn. She 
was glad of this chance to meet her advisor, Professor 
Black, of the English Department, and to ask ques¬ 
tions and receive suggestions from him. 

“I’m glad that I don’t have to tell you my major,” 
she admitted apologetically, as she took her place 
before him, “because I haven’t decided on one yet. 
When I do, I want it to lead to something useful, 
though.” 

“Of course you do,” Professor Black agreed. “And, 
that being the case, I advise you to make up your mind 
as soon as possible. The Dean of Women can help 


82 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

you in this. Have you heard of the tests given to 
reveal a student’s capabilities? Then, too, through 
a file and contacts with outside advisers, students are 
provided with the latest vocational information. 

“Look for a bulletin called ‘University Training 
and Vocational Outlets’ at the Registrar’s Office. And 
watch for a series of lectures to be given by depart¬ 
ment heads, outlining vocational possibilities for which 
training is given. 

“Now, to get back to mapping your course, you’ll 
find it will include one subject from each of the three 
groups I mentioned. Tell me, which group interests 
you most?” 

“Oh, arts and letters. I know I want to take some 
English and some art. And I’d like to go on with 
my French.” 

Shortly, under Professor Black’s expert guidance, 
Joan’s study list card was made out and signed. It 
included history, biology, French and art. And now, 
for Joan, the first class day could not come quickly 
enough. 

In contrast to the first two meals, Joan had taken 
at Roble, luncheon was accompanied by a hum of 
conversation. Study lists were compared, aims and 
ambitions talked over and the experiences of the 
morning reviewed. 

Later, the girls gathered in the lobby and on the 
lawns and then drifted off in groups toward the 
Library and the Stanford sight-seeing tours. In front 

*3 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

of the Library, the buses stood waiting. And a large 
crowd of freshman had gathered. 

Joan, as she neared the Library, was conscious of 
a familiar figure standing isolated in front of the 
fountain. 

“Hi, Joan!” Don came toward her. “I missed out 
on seeing you this morning. Where did you hide? 
And I couldn’t risk not finding you again this after¬ 
noon, so, I’ve been on the lookout. Shall we do this 
together ? I could get some chaps for your girl friends 
and make a party.” 

Dixie whistled a few gay notes, and then smiled 
as Don went in search of his friends. 

“So things are beginning to pick up,” she exulted. 
“I’d been wondering when we gals were going to 
get a break.” 

“I wish Bobby had come with us,” Joan sighed. “But 
I suppose she and Butch don’t need a sight-seeing 
tour after two quarters here. I believe he’s taking her 
for a spree in that soda fountain they call the ‘Cel¬ 
lar’ and after that, they’re going shopping in Palo 
Alto.” 

“Yes, and the last thing those two need is food. 
Have you seen Butch? Well, you’ll know what I 
mean when you do.” 

Geneve glanced over to where Don, with a group 
of men, was coming toward them. 

“Tell me, who is Don, Joan? Have you known 
him long?” 


84 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Yes, all my life. He’s from my home town.” 

“He dresses awfully well. Has he a car?” 

“Oh, a grand new cream colored sport model. You 
must come riding with us some time, Geneve.” 

Don returned in a moment with his friends. After 
Joan’s introductions, he presented the boys. 

“This is Bill Grady. They tell me he weighs a 
hundred and eighty and comes with a rep at foot¬ 
ball, so you better be nice to him, or else— Then, this 
little guy is Holt Emery—good things come in small 
packages. Matthew Russell, otherwise known as Babe. 
He keeps that school girl complexion by using van¬ 
ishing cream every night.” Don smiled blandly into 
the enraged face of one of the handsomest men Joan 
had ever seen. 

“Milt and Buck Haseltine are brothers. You’d 
never guess it, would you? That’s because Buck is 
always passing it to Milt. He lets him do the worry¬ 
ing, that’s what keeps Milt worn to the bone.” 

“Listen,” Buck protested, “you never even saw us 
until this morning. What gets Milt down is boning. 
He needs a year on a dude ranch instead of at a 
college.” 

“Do you think I’m a rambling wreck?” Milt ques¬ 
tioned Joan under his breath. She glanced up into 
nice gray eyes in a lean, sensitive face, and smiled. 

“What do you think?” 

“Let’s find a seat in the bus,” he suggested and the 
two walked toward where the buses were parked. 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Hey, you can’t get away with that!” Don caught 
Joan by the arm. “Joan’s my gal!” 

For a moment they stopped to listen to a guide. It 
appeared from his directions that they were to pro¬ 
ceed first, and on foot, to the Memorial Chapel. 
Then return for an inspection of the Art Gallery 
and the Library. From there on, the tour would be by 
bus. 

As Don put his arm possessively through Joan’s, 
Milt complained woefully, “There’s an extra man some¬ 
where and maybe I’m it. Can’t Joan manage to take 
along two of us?” 

“Okeh, since you put it that way. Only remember, 
I get the seat next to Joan later in the bus.” 

As the class started, Joan was not surprised to see 
that Geneve and Babe had found each other. They 
made a fine pair. She was frankly admiring them. 
After a moment, however, her attention was drawn 
to Dixie, just ahead of her. She was trying a pro¬ 
nounced Southern drawl on Bill with telling results. 

They entered a wide quadrangle, surrounded by 
classroom buildings opening on a continuous arcade, 
and dominated by the Chapel. 

Circular gardens dotted the enclosure, planted with 
shrubs and palm trees. The effect was picturesque 
and suggested the type of architecture which the 
Spanish fathers had used in the California Missions. 

“This,” the guide explained, “is what is called the 
inner quadrangle, or Quad. Another similar row of 


86 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

buildings surrounds these, with smaller courts here 
and there between, and is called the outer Quad. In 
time, two other new quadrangles will be completed. 
The Library and the Art Gallery will become part of 
one of these.” 

Traversing the Quad, they entered the Chapel. Joan 
was at once impressed with a feeling of deep quiet. 
Above the altar and along nave and transepts, Byzan¬ 
tine in style, glorious stained-glass windows turned 
the sunlight into a rainbow of rich color. From the 
mass of shadows it picked a profusion of lacy carvings 
and intricate colored mosaic pictures. 

Joan drifted about, gazing at the great panels 
depicting the Bible story from the creation to the 
Cross, patterned in small, bright stones; glimpsing the 
apostles in the windows; enjoying the detail of Rosel- 
li’s, The Last Supper; reading the inspiring inscrip¬ 
tions carved on the walls. 

“The Chapel,” the guide explained, “was built as 
a Memorial to Governor Stanford. All of the mosaics 
came from Italy, but the designer of the Chapel was 
a Californian. To Mrs. Stanford, the Chapel was the 
most important building on the Campus. For this 
reason, she chose its dominant position, and lavished 
beauty upon it. It is the sincere wish of the University, 
as it was of Mrs. Stanford, that it may be a place of 
inspiration to all.” 

After the soft twilight of the Chapel interior, the 
sun outside seemed over-bright. The long line of 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

freshmen was subdued and rather quiet as it returned 
to the Library. Entering the lobby, they inspected the 
Reserved Book Room on the ground floor, where most 
of the books used by freshmen are kept. Then, they 
climbed the broad stairway to the second floor. 

At the head of the staircase they saw the lending desk 
and the card index system. Later they wandered about 
through the reference room and the periodical room, 
containing valuable files of newspapers and magazines, 
and peered at rare books through the glass cases. 

“The Library contains seven hundred and ten thou¬ 
sand volumes and is one of the largest in the West,” 
the guide explained. 

Returning to the lobby, they turned into the rooms 
devoted to the Hoover War Library. With interest, 
they stood before the tables and cases, turning the 
pages of old books, looking at pictures and trophies, 
trying to imagine what Stanford and the world was 
like in those days that were still so vivid to their 
mothers and fathers. 

“Oh, dear,” Joan sighed to Selma and Don, with 
whom she was looking at a book, “it must have been 
dreadful! Dad says everything at Stanford was go¬ 
ing on about as usual. The girls were dating for 
Junior Week, and the boys getting ready for the 
track meet, and then, suddenly, America was in the 
war and the boys who were over twenty-one had 
joined up in the Ambulance units or enlisted for 
regular service and were starting to go overseas. It 


88 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

wasn’t any time before they were all in the service.” 

“My Dad was here, too.” Babe, from across the 
table, had been listening to Joan. “That is, he wasn’t 
at Stanford, but the next year, when they started the 
Officers’ Club at Camp Fremont, he got to know a 
lot of co-eds.” 

“It must have been grand to have had a camp like 
that almost in the University’s back yard, with officers’ 
dances all the time.” 

Geneve sighed. 

“It was, I guess. They used a Victorian mansion 
nearby as the club house. Dad said it was beautiful. 
And then, they sent out invitations to the four most 
important sororities.” 

“Listen, you kids. You’d think that war was just 
one grand party, to hear you talk.” Don was re¬ 
proving. 

Selma looked at him quietly. “I lost two uncles in 
it. They were around your age then. And they were 
in college, too.” 

“Yes, and the flu was dreadful here, too. Lots of 
students died of it. Everyone was frightened it would 
be his turn next.” Joan was very serious, remem¬ 
bering tales her father had told. “But,” she added 
cheerfully, “they did say the flu masks were awfully 
funny. Everyone wore them on Quad and scarcely 
anybody knew who anyone else was. Some of the 
girls wouldn’t go in for white cheesecloth, but made 
net and lace ones instead.” 


89 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

The voice of their guide attracted their attention. 
“The Hoover War Library is the world’s largest col¬ 
lection of data and original material on the World 
War and subsequent treaties. Priceless letters and re¬ 
ports, complete portfolios on the League of Nations, 
entire rooms filled with propaganda posters and news¬ 
paper files of war times—these and much else at¬ 
tract research scholars from the East and Europe to 
study here.” 

Quitting the Library, a short walk brought the 
group to the Art Gallery. 

“Oh, Oh,” Dixie whispered as they entered the 
room of permanent exhibits, “What is that statue?” 

“She is magnificent, isn’t she? Let’s take a peek 
at her inscription. Why, it seems she was presented 
to President Hoover by the Belgian Government in 
gratitude for his reconstruction work there. I sup¬ 
pose, after the War.” Joan looked up at the great 
veiled bronze figure that confronted them with greater 
respect. 

“I am the same yesterday, today and forever,” she 
translated. 

“Look at this, Joan.” Don took her arm and led 
her to a room of temporary exhibits. “Originals of 
modern illustrations by Mausser. I’ve seen some of them 
in leading magazines, haven’t you?” 

“Oh, that one—I read the story of that in a woman’s 
magazine. And this one. Doesn’t he get vitality in 
them?” 


90 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“And composition. They’re good, for all that the 
work is hurried.” 

“But Don did you see that painting on the wall as we 
entered. It’s perfect! Let’s go back. I really want to get 
a good look at it.” 

Returning to the outer room she nodded toward a 
canvas some two-and-a-half by three feet in size and 
mounted in an elaborate gold frame. “Pio Ricci, 
Florence, XVI Costum,” she read. “Just look how per¬ 
fectly the artist has reproduced the texture and gleam 
of satin in that lady’s dress. I simply must find out a 
little more about it.” 

“We don’t know very much about it ourselves,” the 
guide was rather amused at her eagerness, “except, of 
course, that it is an original painting and was pur¬ 
chased by the Senator and Mrs. Stanford on one of 
their trips abroad, probably in Florence. The artist un¬ 
doubtedly specialized in painting satin and other fabrics. 
We’ve actually had to put the canvas high on the wall 
out of the reach of visitors because they were con¬ 
tinually touching it to make sure that it really wasn’t 
cloth. He did make a very balanced composition 
though, and we consider it one of our best paintings.” 

“Well,” thought Joan, “for the next four years it’s 
going to be under my very special, if unofficial care.” 
She instinctively wanted to adopt a few landmarks and 
Stanford possessions as her own. It gave her more of a 
sense of “belonging.” 

Returning to the buses, Joan climbed into one and 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

found a seat and Don followed. As she turned to him, 
she was surprised to find seated beside her, instead of 
Don, a long, lazy-looking youth with sleek black hair 
and a blue line already about his firm jaw. At her 
look of surprise, he grinned. 

“Sorry, but there’s only one way to fix men like 
Don. He’s the persistent type and you have to take 
’em off guard.” 

“Well, I like that!” Don appearing, folded his 
arms and glared at the interloper. As the aisle filled 
with girls and men, he was pushed forward and 
Joan had only time to call, “I couldn’t help it.” 

The dark chap, having achieved his purpose, was 
content for the moment to sit quietly and listen to the 
guide. 

They were now going to cross in front of the outer 
quadrangle to the Museum, and, farther on, to the 
Founder’s Tomb. Stanford had, as doubtless every¬ 
one knew, been conceived as a memorial by Mr. 
and Mrs. Stanford to their son, Leland, Junior. He 
had died at the age of sixteen in Florence, Italy, while 
engaged in collecting objects of art for a museum 
which he had hoped someday to build for the people 
of the West. These objects, together with valuable 
additions, were now housed in the Stanford Museum. 
This building, architecturally a copy of the Museum 
at Athens, was the first building anywhere in the 
world to be constructed of reinforced concrete. 

“Now,” Joan’s partner turned toward her, “let’s get 


92 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

acquainted. You’re Joan Something-or-other and I’m 
Pierre Duval. Don can have you the rest of the 
day, but I just wanted to be in time to date you for 
the Registration Dance.” 

“Why,—but—” Joan protested, “you don’t know 
me at all. What makes you think you want me for a 
partner?” 

“I don’t know anyone at all. I’m from France via 
England. But I’m not shy. I’ve looked ’em all over 
and you’re my pick,” and he tipped his head and 
peered up at her with such a droll mixture of eager¬ 
ness and hope that Joan could not help laughing. 

“Swell!” he exclaimed, rising as the bus drew up 
before the Museum, and before Joan could give an 
answer, he was clambering out before her in order to 
help her down. 

In the entrance hall, which is dominated by its 
bronze group of the Stanford family, the class turned 
to the right, where, through a door, Joan caught sight 
of mummies and the reds and blues of ancient Egypt. 

“Oh, what a thrill,” she gasped. “I’ve studied so 
much about things like this, but I’ve never seen any.” 

“Oh, ugh,” Yvonne backed away from the open 
mummy case with its gruesome contents. 

“Come on. Don’t be a sissy,” Holt pushed her 
forward. “It won’t bite you. It’s dead.” 

“Th-that’s the trouble. And look! What’s that? 
It’s a hand. Oh, Holt, it’s a dead hand. I want to 
get out of here. Let me go.” 


93 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Holt, pretending annoyance, but really as amused 
as the rest over Yvonne’s jitters, led her away from 
the offending case to where a group of clay tablets 
were arranged. 

“Look, see here, Yvonne,” he soothed her. “These 
were used as letters in the good old days of two 
thousand odd before Christ.” 

“Let me see, let me see.” At his words, Joan and 
several of the others gathered around. 

“It’s cuneiform,” she queried, “isn’t it? Do look at 
this one.” She read a label by the side of the small 
lump of clay. “ ‘Receipt for one ox and two sheep 
dated in 2350 b.c.’ ” 

“It makes time seem nothing, doesn’t it?” Milt 
answered her. “Like the saying, ‘Time stays, we go.’ ” 

“Look-a-here,” his brother was poring over the 
little collection, “ ‘Contract bearing name of Darius, 
Persian king of Babylon and dated second year of his 

• » jj 

reign. 

“Yes, and lookie,” Yvonne was interested now, 
“ ‘Contract with name of son of Nebuchadnezzar, 
560 b.c.’ Nebuchadnezzar! I know him!” 

“You’re sure an old woman, Yvonne,” Don teased 
her. 

“Why I—well, I know who he was. Don’t be silly!” 
as her words brought a laugh. 

“Look over here at these necklaces,” Geneve called 
to them, “don’t they look modern? I’d love that 


94 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

amethyst and gold beaded one on this blue dress of 
mine.” 

“Oh, and wouldn’t the coral be pretty on my white 
knit!” 

“It would, wouldn’t it, Dixie? Look, they used 
snoods then, too. And the gold bracelets are really 
very Victorian.” 

“The curator would think we were crazy.” 

“Unless his wife may have said the same thing.” 

“Joan, Joan, look at this! And Don, too. You’re 
interested in art.” Selma’s eyes were wide with ex¬ 
citement. “Why, this portrait is as modern as any¬ 
thing that’s being done today.” 

She drew them to a cabinet in which the pictures 
of a man and a woman were displayed. 

“ ‘Portrait of a mummy painted by Greek with 
spatula and bees wax,’ ” Don read. “And the other 
one’s of tempera. That’s not in such good condition. 
But that woman’s head!” 

“It even has a little highlight on the nose.” 

“Aw, what’s the use!” Don turned away in mock 
despair. “There’s nothing new under the sun. Why 
even try to be original?” 

“Look at all the stone scarabs! I wonder why they 
had so many.” 

“They used them in mummies,” Milt explained, 
“to take the place of the heart. You’ve heard the ex¬ 
pression, ‘heart of stone,’ haven’t you?” 


95 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Milt, what are you, a walking encyclopedia!” Bill 
groaned. 

“No, but I want to be an archeologist. Get me 
around a pack of modern stuff and I wouldn’t know 
a thing.” 

Hastily, Joan and her group followed the rest as the 
room began to clear. 

“Purple and fine linen,” she murmured to herself as 
she passed by a wall case filled with old Phoenician 
pieces, and, “Oh, look at the toys,” she exclaimed as a 
case came into view that she had not seen before. 

“No,” Milt explained. “When an important Egyp¬ 
tian died, his wives, servants and horses were killed 
to keep him company in the next world. Later, these 
ushabtiu were made by priests to take their places. 
It saved a lot of slaughter.” 

Reaching the door, they were just in time to hear 
a guide’s concluding remarks. “Egypt had three arts 
which are lost to the modern world, fine weaving of 
linen, mummifying and cutting of basalt stone.” 

“Oh, I want to see the peach blown vase. Hugh 
told me all about it years ago. And that there are only 
five in the world because the originator died with his 
secret,” Joan remarked as they entered the Oriental 
rooms. 

“Say, in just a minute, you’ll be in the same class 
as Milt,” Dixie warned her. “Just two encyclopedic 
pals.” 

“That sounds nice and I like it,” Joan laughed. 

96 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Here it is. Look, ‘Value, twelve thousand five 
hundred dollars.’ Can you imagine! It’s pretty, but 
so small and plain.” 

“I wonder how much it would have been worth if 
the secret hadn’t been kept,” Bill speculated matter- 
of-factly. 

Past groups of cloisonne hundreds of years old, and 
delicate gilt bronzes, and embroideries and carvings 
they wandered, only able to take a swift glance at the 
treasures that promised to yield them much when they 
made a later and more leisurely return. 

“This, the best Oriental exhibit in the West,” the 
guide announced, “is the Ikeda collection. Ikeda was 
one of Japan’s greatest connoisseurs. After his death, 
his family planned to send the collection to the British 
Museum in order to raise funds for a memorial to 
him. His son, accompanying the collection, visited 
Mrs. Stanford. She was permitted to view it and 
purchased it at once.” 

“Oh!” Looming out of the semi-darkness of a 
room beyond, Joan was confronted by a huge black 
locomotive with red lights glinting along its sides. 
It looked sinister with its great bellied smoke stack, 
and the pointed cow-catcher directed her way. 

“That’s the Governor Stanford/' the guide, close by 
her, explained. “First locomotive purchased for the 
Central Pacific Railroad, shipped to California by 
way of Cape Horn and arrived in Sacramento October 
seventh, eighteen sixty-three. Stanford was Governor 


97 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

of California at that time and President of the Cen¬ 
tral Pacific Railroad. This was, as you doubtless know, 
the first transcontinental railroad to connect California 
with the East. Governor Stanford, together with 
Crocker, Huntington and Hopkins, was a builder of 
this railroad. It did more than any one thing, outside 
of gold, to develop California.” 

On the walls of the room, great murals depicted 
the days of Forty-nine. Cases were filled with relics. 

At the head of the broad marble stairs, the class 
viewed the exhibits of Guatemalan weaving, Javanese 
batik, and Venetian glass, delicate as flowers. Then, 
they came upon the Indian collection. Joan, one of the 
first to reach it, was able to hear it explained by the 
curator. 

“This collection is representative of the various 
pueblos in Arizona which make pottery. In all the 
designs, they use symbols for harvests, rain, and so on. 
Some are very old, some new.” 

Joan looked intently at the clay pots and vases, try¬ 
ing to discover where each symbol was. The curator 
sought to help her. 

“This is a bird.” He pointed to a black design, 
looking to her very much like a pagoda. “It’s body 
is divided in half by a black line. The lower section is 
filled with dots, or grain. In other words, it has had 
a good meal, or harvest. 

“Incidentally, notice the spirit line on so many of 
these pieces.” 


98 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Spirit line!” Yvonne looked as if she were about 
to retreat again. 

“Yes. The black painted design around the top. 
There’s a break in it. It doesn’t meet. You see, the 
women who make these vessels believe that something 
of themselves, of their spirit, goes into each piece that 
is made by them. In case the spirit wants to get out, 
an opening in the design on the rim is left.” 

“I’d draw an unbroken circle around my 1930 
Ford,” Bill, stooping, hissed in her ear, “only I’m 
afraid it’s too late. The spirit has already left it.” 

At last, in a room some thirty by fifty feet in size on 
the second floor, Joan found the answer to the question 
that had been subconsciously bothering her all morn¬ 
ing. Leland and Jane Stanford had given more than 
83,000 acres of priceless land and more than $33,000,000 
to found Stanford. Why did they do it? Was it really 
a memorial to Leland, Jr., or had they built it for a 
selfish motive like personal prestige? Joan despised 
herself for wondering, but she couldn’t help it. The 
sums involved were so huge. Now, as she looked across 
the room she really began to understand. In cases 
standing alone were the personal possessions of Leland 
Stanford, Jr. Toys that he played with when still a 
small boy, not elaborate ones chosen for their showiness, 
but those which only a mother could, or would, choose. 
His first attempts at boat building, a crude little hull 
carved out of wood; a few worn cars of his model rail¬ 
road, for one of his greatest dreams was to become a 


99 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

railroad man like his father; the notebooks and art 
supplies he once used; his guns, his first watch, and 
a letter to his father describing Mount Vesuvius. In 
another case was a mirror he had made for his mother 
with a hand-carved handle and back, flanked on either 
side by his first two efforts that did not satisfy him. 
Yes, in a thousand homes throughout the country one 
might find similar collections, but none more hon¬ 
estly or painstakingly assembled than that contained 
in this room. There wasn’t any real difference, Joan 
reflected, between the idea of creating this great uni¬ 
versity and Mr. and Mrs. Hodges’ gift of a library to 
the school back in Fresno in memory of their son, 
except that the Stanfords were able to do it on a grand 
scale. 

“Gosh, it was tough, wasn’t it?” Joan, her thoughts 
far away, almost jumped at the remark, made close 
beside her. Then, she looked up into Bill’s eyes. 

“Yes, it was, Bill. A tragic reason for building a 
University. Most people would have just sat down 
and howled.” 

From the museum, they strolled through a maze 
of trails bordered by cacti which led into the deep 
shadows of oak trees. They paused where, in a clear¬ 
ing of lawns and flower beds, the sphinx-guarded 
Stanford Mausoleum arose. The guide quoted, 
“ ‘Theirs the power to mold unborn generations for 
good; to keep one’s hands mightily on human affairs, 
after the flesh has been dust for years. Thus does 


700 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

man become co-worker with God in shaping the world 
to a better outcome.’ ” 

The remainder of the tour led past the men’s 
dormitories, Encina and Tayon and Branner, and the 
men’s athletic plant, all isolated to the east of the 
Quad. Down Lasuen Street, commonly called the 
Row, bordered by the Union, the bookstore, the Post 
Office and the majority of fraternity and sorority 
houses, the bus rumbled. As she passed, Joan took a 
long look at these latter, standing stately among trees 
on their deep lawns. 

Then, they were driving by the now familiar Roble, 
with Lagunita Court close by, newest and most mod¬ 
ern of the University’s residences for women, and, 
across from it, the gymnasium. Finally they turned 
back past the post office to stop at the Union. 

“Last stop,” announced the guide, “will be the 
Union Cellar.” 

“Cellar! What does he mean by that?” Geneve 
looked skeptical. 

“I’ve heard it’s a soda fountain,” Joan explained, 
“and a place for between-meal snacks, in the base¬ 
ment of the Union. And am I ready for a long, cold 
drink!” 

“I really feel as if I belonged at Stanford now.” Dixie 
and the rest, perched on stools at the long counter, 
sipped their drinks and chatted with animation. 

“Yes, but, oh, it’s a much grander place than I 
thought,” Yvonne was ecstatic, “and you can tell 


i oi 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

that it’s going to go on growing and growing.” 

“Yes,” Don agreed. “Take that Cubberly Educa¬ 
tion Building for example. It was so late we didn’t 
have much time for it today. Five hundred twenty-five 
thousand dollars to build, auditorium seats five hun¬ 
dred and library rooms alone accommodate over one 
hundred and fifty students. That’s just one building of 
what will be a whole new quadrangle. It seems 
perfect now, but fifty years hence, we won’t even 
recognize the place.” 

“Well, I really like that,” Joan agreed. “I wouldn’t 
be so interested in a University that had stopped 
growing and depended on its past history for all its 
interest. I’d rather belong to a place that’s alive and 
on its way.” 

“There must be lots of traditions and things,” 
Yvonne sighed. “We’ll be sure to be booed before we 
learn all of them.” 

“I know one. Women aren’t supposed to use the 
Law Steps.” 

“Oh, well, Joan, you’d be supposed to know that.” 

“Isn’t there something about an axe?” Yvonne 
questioned. 

“I should say. Has anyone heard it?” Joan glanced 
around the circle. 

At a few shakes of the head, she started. “Well, it 
seems, my children, that many years ago, forty, to be 
exact, Stanford forged an axe to scalp her rival, Cali¬ 
fornia, with. She may not really have meant it, but 


J02 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

it was a good big axe, just the same. California got 
clever and stole the axe a month later and kept it 
for thirty years. Once a year, they brought it out 
for their football rally. In nineteen-thirty, a bunch of 
Stanfordites sneaked into their rally disguised as 
photographers, threw a little tear gas around and 
snatched the axe. Now, it’s used as a Big Game 
trophy. Oh, dear! Do you suppose we’ll have a 
ghost of a chance to win it this fall?” 

“Cheer up, Joan. You ought to know. Anyway, 
if the team doesn’t, it won’t be from lack of trying.” 

“I know it won’t, Dixie.” 

“I found out another tradition,” Geneve laughed. 
“No smoking on Quad. How do I know? The boy I 
was with tried it.” 

After the amusement at this little confession had 
subsided, Selma suggested the boys’ corduroy trou¬ 
sers. “Only upper-classmen can wear them. My cousin 
did in the mad twenties.” 

“Yes, that’s right,” Bobby agreed. “Only now, no¬ 
body wants to wear them. Look around you on 
Quad and you’ll see. And gals, have you all ditched 
your prep school pins? They’re just not the thing 
here.” 

“Oughtn’t we to hurry?” Joan finished her ice 
cream soda. “We’ll be late for dinner.” 

“What are you wearing to the Jolly-up ?” Dixie asked 
as they walked toward Roble. 

“It isn’t a dress-up affair.” 


103 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“I know, but after such a day I feel the need of 
freshening up a bit.” 

“So do I. Let’s scramble.” Dixie led the group as 
they hurried up to their rooms. 

“I say, we might as well make use of my brother at 
the Jolly-up tonight.” Bobby joined the group after 
dinner, “I’ve arranged a signal with him. If any of 
us isn’t happy with her partner, Prince Butch Charm¬ 
ing will rescue her from the dragon by cutting in. 
We have simply to nod twice.” 

“Bobby, I don’t know what any of us would do 
down on this Farm without you. I never knew that 
brothers could be so convenient.” 

“Think nothing of it my dear. I’m enjoying my 
mission immensely.” 

“What I think is peculiar, though, is the way the 
girls have to go unescorted. I’ll feel so foolish just 
standing around there. You know, like I was over¬ 
anxious to go.” 

“You’ll get over that when you see all the rest do¬ 
ing the same thing.” 

“Lucky for us they had the Jolly-up tonight. After 
all the excitement we’ve been through, it would be 
a dreadful let-down if we had to go to bed at eight 
o’clock on our first Saturday night here.” 

“Remember, just sports clothes. Most informal, 
you know,” and Bobby again guided the group in 
her course of Etiquette A, as she called it. “I’ll meet 
you downstairs in ten minutes.” 


104 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Wasn’t it lucky Mother made me this outfit!” 
thought Joan as she pushed her auburn curls up 
under the gold-colored felt sport hat that matched 
the knitted suit, and selected a rust sport handkerchief 
to blend with her bracelet and clips. “I’ve every¬ 
thing that I can ever need this winter and I paid for 
it all myself. But we did work, Mother, Bunny and 
I. And we did bargain hunt!” And, humming a little 
tune, she hurried down the stairs to the others. 

“You certainly will knock ’em dead,” pronounced 
Bobby as she looked Joan over briefly, and propelled 
her hurriedly out of the front door and across the 
street to the gymnasium. “But I warn you, if you 
keep your future dates waiting as long as you did 
me, they’ll either do a run-out on you or fall dead 
asleep from boredom.” 

“Wait right here, chummies,” commanded Bobby. 
“I see Butch over there, and I want to explain mat¬ 
ters to him. He doesn’t know it, but he may be tak¬ 
ing the four of us home tonight.” 

“Oh, Yvonne, don’t you feel lost?” Joan mourned, 
as the girls stood huddled together. “I don’t see a 
soul I know here. Suppose we stand by this wall all 
night and never—oh!” Someone had tapped her arm. 

“Shall we dance?” and Joan was whirled away. 

“You live in the Union, don’t you?” questioned her 
partner. “I’ve seen you go in there five times to¬ 
day.” 

“Why . . .” Tag again and Joan was whirling, 

1 °5 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

dipping, flying about with what seemed no system at 
all. 

“Wonderful dancer,” came a new voice. “Haven’t 
I met you before?” 

“Well, hardly. I . . .” Tag. Joan was growing a 
bit bewildered. At home, it had been easy to follow, 
no matter how intricate her partner’s steps. Here, 
they had dancing techniques totally unknown to her. 
Tag again, and Joan glanced up to meet two laugh¬ 
ing blue eyes above a snub nose, ridged with freckles. 

“Come on, let’s get a breath of cool air for a 
moment. My friends call me, Del.” 

Joan followed her escort as he guided her through 
the crowd about the door, and out into the wide patio 
with its placid fountain in the center. 

“One can’t stand too much of that without sus¬ 
tenance,” and Del nodded back toward where the 
strains of an excited saxophone dominated a very 
good band. 

Joan giggled. As she left the dance floor, she had 
noticed Yvonne frantically nodding off into space, 
while her partner, blissfully unconscious of her in¬ 
tentions, carried on an animated conversation. 

“Now, I don’t think that’s very polite. Laughing 
at me when I merely tried to rescue you.” 

“Oh, I wasn’t laughing at you!” Joan for the mo¬ 
ment had forgotten her escort. “I’m most grateful.” 

“Then, why the snicker? Oh, well, never mind. 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

I should pry! Until I know you better. How about 
a tall lemonade, or something?” 

“Perfect.” 

“I sat back of you at the sponsor’s meeting this 
morning and I’ve been waiting for a chance to meet 
you.” 

Joan looked skeptical. “That’s an awfully old line. 
The same one the lad used who watched me go into 
the Union five times today. I live at Roble. Somehow, 
I didn’t think you were that sort.” 

“I’m not. It’s the truth. I sat just back of you 
and said ‘Ahem,’ and you can ask a friend of mine, 
Butch Wellman, if it isn’t so.” 

“Butch! Why, that’s Bobby’s twin brother.” 

“Yes, and we’ve a bet on, that I’ll tell you about 
some day. It concerns you, too. Butch is a great guy.” 

“Why not tell me now?” Joan’s curiosity for the 
moment got the better of her desire to be nonchalant. 

“Sorry to disappoint you, but remember the snicker. 
If your secrets are inviolable, so are mine. That is, 
for a week or two. Of course, I may at last give in. 
Here we are. What’ll it be?” 

For awhile the two were content to be silent, as the 
tall drinks disappeared. At last, Joan breathed a deep 
sigh of contentment. “I feel lots cooler now. Can 
we rest any longer, or should we go back to the 
party?” 

“I should take you back. This is your get-acquainted 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

affair. But first, let’s have this settled. May I see you 
home? I probably won’t have another chance to ask 
you during the evening.” 

“Why, yes,” Joan assented with a distinct feeling of 
relief. Now it would not be necessary to rely upon 
the unknown Butch’s generosity. In addition, the 
prospect of seeing the breezy Del again was distinctly 
pleasant. Returning to the gymnasium, they started 
to dance as they entered. 

“Aha, so that’s what you’ve been up to, Del! No 
fair! It looks to me as if I’ve lost out after all,” and 
Joan was tagged by a jolly-looking young man with 
a very round face—in fact, he was round all over. 

“You know, Bobby promised me a first class in¬ 
troduction earlier this evening, but we couldn’t find 
you, and I was sold on my Prince Charming role. 
I’m Bobby’s brother.” 

“It was certainly grand of you to offer your services. 
We aren’t used to such attention.” 

“You mean, you don’t need such attention. That’s 
where I miscalculated. You see, far from being a 
great sacrifice on my part, I figured to gain by it. 
As it turns out, I think I lose. What’s the an¬ 
swer?” 

“How should I . . . Oh . . . !” 

Joan had been tagged at such an interesting point 
in the conversation that she felt cheated. Should she 
try out the signal? Why not? Especially since Butch 
seemed to be watching her so intently. She caught his 

108 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

eye, nodded twice, and, with a celerity surprising in 
one so plump, he was at her side. He pounded her 
partner on the back. 

“Quick work, don’t you think ? Really, do you 
prefer my company to his? I’m honored.” 

“Won’t you please go on from where we were in¬ 
terrupted?” 

“I’ll have to find a quiet corner for that. Come on, 
there’s one on that marble bench. You see, I know 
all the ins and outs of this place.” 

“Del told me you two sat back of me in sponsor’s 
meeting this morning.” 

“So Del has been discussing me. Did he tell you 
about our argument?” 

“Well, he did say that when you were both at the 
meeting . . .” 

“That’s the argument . . . Well, of all the nerve. 
That couple should know this space is reserved. That’s 
better. Now, to make a long story short, two chaps 
sit in back of a certain girl in a certain meeting. Said 
individual looketh mighty good to said bohunks, but 
unfortunately they find it difficult to make any sort 
of impression. Hence, a debate. Thence, a wager 
between said chumps. Whichsoever of the two shall 
meet said damsel first . . .” 

“Oh, I see it now. Really, Butch Wellman, I don’t 
think that’s so funny. And I suppose Del won by 
meeting me first?” 

“Right the first time.” 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Well he deserved to, because you really had a 
much better chance as Bobby’s brother.” 

“Thanks a lot, you little flatterer.” Butch seemed 
quite annoyed. 

“There goes ‘Home, Sweet Home’ and . . 

“And I suppose you’ve promised that to Del. I 
guess I am slow on my feet, all right. But believe 
me, from now on, I’ll try to correct that.” 

“Anyway, Butch, I appreciate your rescuing me 
and . . 

Del appeared from among the crowd and took her 
by the arm. “I knew Butch would get even. Had 
you sidetracked over here in a corner all evening.” 

“Only following your lead, my lad. I was just 
explaining our little bet. It appears that you come out 
on top,” and Butch gave Del a friendly whack, as he 
and Joan whirled away in the direction of the exit. 


( 


i io 



Chapter Five 


W hat on earth happened to Yvonne?” Joan asked, 
“I managed to wake her up about a half hour 
ago and I haven’t heard a sound from her since. That 
is,” she corrected herself, “I thought I woke her up. I 
called and asked her if she were up and she said, ‘Sure!’ 
Seems to me she sounded rather sleepy though.” 

“Well, let’s investigate,” Selma suggested, “and if 
she isn’t, why—” She chuckled gleefully. 

Very softly Selma knocked on Yvonne’s door, but 
there was no answer. Then, quietly turning the knob, 
the girls peeked in. The picture before them would 
have made a pleasing advertisement for a mattress 
company. Snuggled beneath the blankets with one hand 


in 








JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

under her cheek, her dark curls tousled and a happy 
little smile on her lips, Yvonne reminded the intruders 
of a little kitten curled up for an afternoon nap in the 
sun. 

Selma and Joan looked at each other. “I just haven’t 
the heart,” Joan whispered. “You do it.” 

Selma looked doubtful, “Gee,” she commented, “there 
ought to be a law against having so much fun sleeping.” 
Walking over to the bed/she sighed, and then, “Hey, 
sleepy-head, wake up! Come on now, be a good girl 
and get up and hear the pretty birdies sing.” The only 
response was a faint stir from Yvonne. Gently, Selma 
tugged at the pillow only to have Yvonne’s hand at¬ 
tempt to brush away the disturbing influence. Selma 
retreated. “Well, Joan, there’s just one way to fix this. 
Come on.” Returning to the bed Selma grabbed one 
end of the sheet under Yvonne’s head and motioned 
Joan to do the same at the foot. Then, together, they 
gave one sharp pull. The result was that a very sleepy 
looking girl sat on the floor, blinking as she watched 
the hasty retreat of her two suite-mates. 

# # # 

“Well, we made it.” Joan was out of breath. “It’s 
just eight-forty-four and a half to be exact. But this 
last minute dashing is going to wear me down I’m 
afraid, that is, unless we fix a method that will really 
wake you up on time.” 

Yvonne smiled contentedly. “It was such a beautiful 


112 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

dream,” she reminisced, “he was a Doctor of Philoso¬ 
phy, and Captain of the football team, and in his spare 
time he was the Student Body President, and oh, he 
had such a beautiful yacht—” 

“There’s Saxon and Selma,” interrupted Joan. 
“They’re at our table. Hello, everybody!” 

“Oh, goodness!” 

Bobby had come up. “Don’t say ‘Hello’ this morn¬ 
ing. That’s one tradition which is going to make 
a wreck out of me yet.” As they sat down, she went 
on explaining in answer to the rather startled, ques¬ 
tioning looks. “I really learned to say ‘Hello’ the Stan¬ 
ford way, that is every time I passed another student, 
the first few weeks I was here, and it was fine. It created 
a grand friendly feeling. Then I fell into a rut,” she 
continued mournfully. “I’d say ‘Hello. How are you?’ 
and the reply would inevitably be, ‘Fine. How are you ?’ 
And then I’d say ‘Fine’ and start all over again ten feet 
further on. Finally, I decided to do a little stream¬ 
lining, for I figured out that in four years’ time I’d 
spend about six hundred hours doing nothing except 
saying ‘Hello.’ ” She paused, and hopefully searched 
the group for a spark of sympathy. There was none. In¬ 
stead, all were valiantly suppressing a desire to laugh. 

“How did the streamlining work out?” Joan asked 
the question innocently, but with a mischievous sparkle 
in her eyes. 

“Fine, until yesterday,” Bobby continued dolefully. 
“Butch and I went on a tour of the entire campus and 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

I’ll bet I said ‘Hello’ to every one of the four thousand 
students at least twice, and I think some tourists who 
were wandering around too. See,” she ended, her voice 
gradually dropping to a whisper, “I can hardly talk at 
all today. Do you think I had better report myself as 
ill?” 

At this the girls could no longer restrain their 
chuckles, but realizing they were attracting the atten¬ 
tion of the other tables they quieted down abruptly. 

“My ambition at the moment,” Selma proclaimed, “is 

to find a real honest-to-goodness Stanford Rough, a 

real live one like I read about a long time ago. I mean 

the kind that used to wear a hat they called the Senior 

Stetson, eleven gallons, shellacked and battered until 

it reached a point where its surface tension was equal 

to a brick bat. That description has always fascinated 
” 

me. 

“Well, you’re just out of luck,” Joan pointed out 
firmly, “for the Stanford women have made a Vanish¬ 
ing American out of the traditional Rough.” 

“And good riddance,” Bobby chimed in, her voice 
having made a surprisingly quick recovery. “Butch’s 
greatest ambition in High School was to own a pair of 
slacks that would pass the old Rough ‘stand in the 
corner alone’ test; that is, until he accidentally brushed 
against a brand new white dress I was wearing one 
day.” She smiled at the memory. “I guess that was the 
only time I’ve ever really been angry with him.” 

“We’d better hurry up,” Joan commented. “You 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

know we’re scheduled to pay Lagunita Court a visit 
to meet some of the upper-class women right after 
breakfast.” 

As the group left the dining room Joan saw Geneve 
just ahead. “Hi! Geneve! Wait a minute. Are you 
going to Lagunita with us?” Geneve stopped, and 
waited for them to come up. “I have a few odds and 
ends to straighten out, but they’ll only take a few 
minutes. I’ll see you over there.” 

“Oh, Geneve, have you met Saxon Barnet? Saxon, 
this is Geneve Anderson.” 

“How do you do?” Geneve spoke without the slight¬ 
est warmth in her voice. 

“Hello,” Saxon replied slowly, “I still think that 
sounds nicer than formal phrases.” And she winked 
at Bobby. 

“Gosh, but Saxon and Geneve look alike,” Yvonne 
commented to Dixie who had just come up. “And yet 
they’re not at all the same type. I guess it must be their 
hair—” A sharp kick on the ankle silenced her, and 
she frowned at Bobby, the offender. 

“See you later, Joan. I’ve got to get busy.” And 
Geneve hurried off. 

“What did I do wrong?” Yvonne asked when Joan 
and Bobby and she were finally alone. 

“Nothing that you could help. But Geneve and 
Saxon are really first cousins.” 

“Then, why on earth—” Joan began. 

“Well the difficulty lies in the fact that Geneve thinks 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

of Saxon as a poor relation. She feels that their lives 
should be on different social planes. A lot of the girls 
know, and they are rather disgusted with her attitude. 
I suppose, though, she’ll eventually snap out of it.” 

“I surely hope she does,” Joan looked very thought¬ 
ful. “It’s rather awkward for everyone this way, es¬ 
pecially for Saxon. Though she doesn’t seem the 
slightest bit concerned about it.” 

# * # 

“Come on, hop in,” Sandra greeted them, from the 
depths of an enormous black roadster with chrome 
exhaust pipes and a torpedo back. 

“Where did you pick up that little trinket?” Bobby 
asked. “Or am I seeing things?” 

Sandra giggled, “Well, Dad said I could have a car 
when I entered Stanford. And I thought I might as well 
make a thorough job of it.” 

“You did!” they chorused. 

“But it’s only a few feet to Lagunita,” Joan demurred. 

“I know. But what of it? We can at least make a 
grand entrance. That’s all this blamed bus is good 
for. Dad didn’t say anything about the upkeep and 
these twelve cylinders gulp up twenty gallons of gas 
like it was a mere teaspoonful. Come on. I haven’t the 
nerve to ride this alone. They’d claim I was going 
highhat and throw me out.” 

Slowly, Sandra maneuvered the big roadster out of 
the driveway and turned down the street. She had 
barely time to shift gears before they came to the en- 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

trance of Lagunita and then, with an innocent ex¬ 
pression, she flicked the muffler cut-out open and 
jammed her foot down on the throttle. Practically every 
window in Lagunita flew open as the ensuing rumble 
turned to a roar and the car shot up the roadway to 
a slithering halt in front of the door. Very demurely, 
and carefully ignoring the outraged countenances above, 
the four girls hastily joined the other girls from Roble 
inside. 

But they did not escape entirely. A moment later 
Joan saw a senior bearing down on them with what 
looked like mayhem in her eyes. “Oh, Sandra,” she 
whispered, “I think we’re really in hot water. What’ll 
we do?” she asked, nodding toward the approaching 
girl. 

“Just wait a minute,” Sandra didn’t seem in the least 
disturbed, “I got you in and I’ll get you out.” She 
walked across the floor looking more sorrowful at 
each step. “I’m terribly mortified,” she began to the 
angry senior, “I do hope you’ll forgive me for creating 
such a disturbance and offer my apologies to the other 
women. The cut-off lever on my car came open and, 
in trying to get it closed, I kicked the throttle.” 

The senior eyed her sternly, and then with a shrug 
of hopelessness, walked away, pausing only to remark 
over her shoulder, “The next time you come up a 
driveway like that you’d better have a new story ready. 
I used a version of that one a long time ago.” 

It was a very subdued Sandra who rejoined the trio. 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Lagunita Court was the most fascinating building 
the girls had yet seen. Divided into six casas, each one 
an independent club organization, the beautiful Spanish 
type building had accommodations for two hundred and 
ninety women. 

“I understand that there is a possibility that this type 
of dormitory will some day take the place of sororities,” 
Bobby told Joan, as they strolled out on the large court, 
after meeting their hostesses. “It would give all the 
students more of a feeling of equality.” 

“If they only could.” Joan carried on the thought, 
“Why, no sorority could possibly be as attractive as 
this. Just look! Each club has a private terrace of its 
own. And they don’t even look the same. That idea of 
planning the awnings, shrubbery and garden furniture 
so that they will all be at different angles and heights 
and yet harmonize is really smooth.” 

Bobby glanced at her watch. “Oh, it’s almost eleven 
o’clock. We’ll have to run for it. The Matriculation 
Service is not till next Sunday, you know, but we 
shouldn’t miss your first service,” she added. 

“I did want to see a little more here.” Joan wished 
she didn’t have to leave the delightful spot with its 
central square of grass planted with trees and the 
bubbling fountain at the back. But Bobby was growing 
impatient. “Come on, if we can get Sandra to put 
her chariot to some practical, and, I might add, more 
staid purpose we can still get there on time.” 

After lunch that afternoon an informal discussion of 

118 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

the honor code was held in Roble’s lobby with Mary 
Stuart, the President of the Women’s Council, presiding. 
The girls, perched on chairs, sofas and practically every¬ 
where else they could find a comfortable spot, relaxed 
into easy friendliness as the Dean of Women ended a 
little welcoming speech with a humorous account of 
the adventures of some of the previous occupants of 
Roble. 

“She seems grand,” Joan whispered to Dixie who was 
sitting beside her. 

“She is, I understand,” the other replied, “only don’t 
get into mischief when she’s around, if you have to get 
into mischief at all. I hear that she turns even the most 
nonchalant freshman into something resembling a badly 
scared bunny with just one look. On the other hand, 
though, she’s the first one to go to if you ever really 
need help.” 

“Yes,” Joan agreed, nodding. “Hugh told me practi¬ 
cally the same thing. Why one time—” 

“Sh-s-s!” Yvonne on her other side interrupted. 
“Listen!” 

Mary Stuart was speaking. “The right given to the 
students of Stanford to govern themselves is based on 
responsibility, and the proving ground of that responsi¬ 
bility is the honor code. 

“Academically, it merely involves signing the honor 
pledge before examinations —No unpermitted aid given 
or received —but behind those simple words rests a 
tradition of honor built up through years of experi- 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

mentation with student government, and backed by a 
plan for its enforcement. 

“Most Stanford students believe in the honor code 
and obey it implicitly throughout their four years. 
The others, those who take advantage of its simplicity, 
fail to count. And for those others—not simply as a 
reminder to the men and women who uphold the code 
—exists the judicial organ of the Associated Students 
—the Men’s and Women’s Councils.” 

She stopped and looked around the room. “I think,” 
she commented, “that we’d cover the ground more 
quickly, and much more thoroughly, if we started open 
discussion right now. I’m not very good at speeches 
anyway,” she added. “Are there any questions?” 

“If the instructor doesn’t stay in the room during an 
exam, what does one do if a question doesn’t seem 
clear?” a girl in the background spoke up. 

“Why he always leaves the number of the room he’s 
going to be in, and you just go and ask for whatever 
information you need.” 

“You mean,” questioned another girl a little in¬ 
credulously, “that one can just pick up her paper during 
an exam and go blithely out of the room ?” 

Mary smiled, “Well I don’t know about the ‘blithely’ 
part of it, for that, of course, would depend just a wee 
bit on how hard a student had studied. However, as 
far as leaving the room is concerned, the Council or 
faculty wouldn’t seriously object if an examination paper 
were written anywhere on the campus, provided it was 


120 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

turned in on time, and with the student’s signature on 
the honor pledge. We then assume, naturally, that the 
student has abided by both the letter and spirit of the 
code.” 

“Well, then,” asked another, “just how does an ex¬ 
amination differ from a theme or paper written out of 
class ? That is, in respect to the provisions of the honor 
code.” 

“It doesn’t,” Mary replied. “If any quotations or 
references are used, the source and credit must be clearly 
stated. In fact, many of the professors will ask you to 
sign the honor code pledge on each sheet of paper. 
Others just take it for granted that the provisions of the 
code have been observed.” 

“Just how does the Library enter into the picture?” 
Selma inquired. “It hasn’t any direct bearing on the 
student’s academic standing and we surely won’t have 
to turn in any papers there.” 

“No,” Mary agreed, “it doesn’t enter into your 
academic work except indirectly, but remember, every 
time you have to write an outside paper you’ll probably 
be searching the Library for reference material, and 
also before exams. Now just think of all the incon¬ 
venience and hardship a careless person could subject 
his classmates to if he or she took a key reference 
volume from the Library at a critical time. It has hap¬ 
pened in a few cases. The honor code, however, carries 
severe penalties to curb such violations with the 
maximum sentence of expulsion. Naturally, no student 


121 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

is going to violate it for the sake of the few seconds it 
takes to sign for books before you take them out of the 
Library” 

For the next hour the questions continued until every 
conceivable contingency that would affect the code’s 
operation had been discussed. Joan felt worn out by the 
time the meeting finally adjourned, and she and Dixie 
assented eagerly when Yvonne suggested a trip to the 
Cellar for a cool drink. 

“When I first read about that code,” Yvonne com¬ 
plained, “it was perfectly simple and clear. And now 
everyone’s gone and made it seem complicated.” 

“No, they haven’t,” Joan reassured her. “It still is a 
simple straight-forward promise to play fair. But, gosh,” 
she added solemnly, “Stanford surely places responsi¬ 
bility on one.” 

“On one?” Dixie inquired. 

Joan laughed, “I guess everyone feels just the same 
way about it. Going to the barbecue this after¬ 
noon?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it, but how are we going to get 
there?” 

“Let’s worry about that after a while. Right now I’m 
mainly interested in a tall glass of cold orangeade or 
sumpthin’.” 

“I second that motion,” Yvonne chimed in. 

“I’ll give ten to one odds that we find Butch and 
Bobby already there,” Dixie prophesied. 

She was right. Not only were Butch and Bobby there, 


122 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

but it seemed that most of Stanford had had the same 
idea. The Cellar was packed. 

“Hey,” waved Bobby as she sighted them on the land¬ 
ing as they were speculating on the possibility of getting 
a seat. “Come on over! The clan is gathering,” she 
proclaimed as they joined the two in the booth. “Sandra 
promised to round up Geneve, and then, if she can 
find Del and some of the other lads were going over 
to the barbecue together. Which gives me an idea. 
Butch, I think you’re wonderful!” 

“Huh!” Butch, startled, momentarily stopped burrow¬ 
ing for a missing cherry in his ice cream. 

“I said,” repeated Bobby firmly, “you’re wonder¬ 
ful.” 

“Yes,” said Butch mournfully, with a wistful eye on 
his unfinished dish, “that’s what I thought you said, 
only I hoped it wasn’t. What is it this time ? Did you 
forget your purse again?” 

“Of course not. But I was just wondering—” 

Butch groaned, “And I was so contented.” 

“Hush!” Bobby rebuked him. “Now, as I was saying, 
it would be rather nice if somebody could round up 
Del, and Don and Holb and— Oh, never mind. You 
can relax, Butch. Here’s Don now.” 

“Hello everybody,” Don grinned. “The Stanford 
Cellar, the crossroads of the world. If you want to find 
anyone on the campus the surest way is to come here 
and wait, and, sure ’nuff, sooner or later he’ll turn 
up.” 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“And here comes Sandra!” Bobby cheered and then 
stopped short. “For the luvva Pete!” she exclaimed, 
“just look who she has with her! Del, Bill, Mathew, 
and who are the other two?” 

“Milt and Buck Haseltine,” Joan supplied. 

“Well, Sandra,” Bobby greeted her, “we’ll really have 
to treat you with respect after this.” 

“Oh, ’twas nothing, nothing at all,” Sandra breezily 
waved her hand. Dropping the pose, she excitedly ex¬ 
plained, “Wow, what a time I had! I took my baby 
locomotive and circled the campus trying to find Del, 
but with no success. So then I drove over to Encina. 
Gosh, I had scarcely pulled up to the door when one of 
their famous bags of water came sailing down and 
missed me by inches. I pulled away to the end of the 
driveway and then really got an idea. I figured that if 
there was enough excitement out front Del would come 
to the window, and that if he saw me he would come 
down. So I started to circle around the driveway. At 
first it was simple for there was only one would-be 
water bomb expert at the window, but it seemed as 
though there were hundreds before Don finally put in 
an appearance and rescued me!” 

“Another stunt like that, Sandra,” Joan warned, “and 
you’re really going to get into trouble. They’re awfully 
strict about driving regulations around here. It was 
a wonder they didn’t catch you today.” 

“Where is Geneve?” Bobby asked. 

“She’ll be along in a few minutes. She wanted to put 


124 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

on something a little less formal than that linen suit 
for the barbecue.” 


# # # 

It was eight-thirty that night when a happily tired 
group returned to Roble. Then a “bull-session” got 
under way in Bobby’s room as the events of the past 
few days were reviewed. 

“Stanford Hill would make a nice painting,” Selma 
remarked. “That blanket of golden stubble dotted with 
oak trees could be done perfectly in oils.” 

“The landscape classes often do go up there,” Bobby 
told her. “Why don’t you try it a little later in the 
fall?” 

“I believe I shall,” Selma nodded. 

“Didn’t you think Lagunita is about the swankiest 
place to live on the campus?” Dixie asked. 

“It certainly is grand. But of course we haven’t seen 
any of the sorority houses yet, and they certainly do 
look attractive from the outside.” Yvonne’s eyes were 
dreamy and far away. 

“They’re very impressive,” Selma put in. 

“Everything’s impressive at Stanford it seems.” 

“What do you think is the most impressive thing 
you’ve seen to date?” Dixie was only half serious. 

“The Chapel.” Yvonne’s answer was prompt. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought the approach to Stan¬ 
ford was,” Sandra put in. 

“Well, gals, I vote for the barbecue we went to to- 


I2 5 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

day. You can have your approach, Sandra, but what a 
bang-up feast that was!” 

“Bobby, you would think of the food,” jeered Sandra. 
“It was really meant as a grand get-together.” 

“Well, the food and I did get together.” 

“And you Dixie?” 

“I don’t know. Today when everyone stood and sang 
the Stanford Hymn up on that hill—” She stopped, 
embarrassed. “I must be going soft,” she finished self¬ 
consciously. 

“No, this place gets under one’s skin,” Joan spoke 
for the first time. “I’ve been thinking though, and I 
still can’t remember anything more impressive than 
the honor code discussion today. It made me feel im¬ 
portant to know that Stanford trusted me and all 
the others enough not to spy on us and supervise us, 
even during examinations.” 

“That’s true, Joan,” Selma agreed thoughtfully, while 
the others murmured approval. 

“What do you say we turn in,” Yvonne yawned 
sleepily, “you know breakfast’s at seven-fifteen to¬ 
morrow.” 

“Motion seconded,” Joan responded. 

“And carried,” Selma finished off. With little for¬ 
mality the group broke up with promises to meet at 
breakfast. 

The next morning Joan awoke restless and eager 
to be off to register at the Administration building. 
It was a beautiful morning, but to Joan there was 
something almost sacred about it. Today she would 


126 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

officially become a part of Stanford, and would really 
start working toward the fulfillment of all her dreams. 
Under the shadow of these arches she would work, 
and study, and try to understand until she had prepared 
herself to meet the world outside. After breakfast 
she clutched her fountain pen in a hand slightly moist 
from excitement, and joined the other freshmen moving 
in bright streams that converged on the Administration 
Building. 

Once inside, dreams were forgotten. Confusion 
ruled supreme. The big lobby was jammed. Freshmen 
were scribbling away in their registration books. They 
perched on the stairs, at tables, against the walls. 

Into the good-natured and excited crowd Joan 
plunged, and finally she reached the window where 
she exchanged a signed yellow card for her registration 
book. 

“Hello, how are you making out?” 

Joan turned, “Oh, hello, Don. I’ve got my book 
but where in the world can I go to fill it out?” 

“Come on outside. You’ll at least have more room 
out there.” 

“What about yours, Don?” 

“Oh, I’m all set. Got my student body card and 
duplicate program left. The desk kept all the other 
twenty-eight pages.” 

“How did you manage it so quickly?” Joan asked as 
they went out of the building. “I got here only a few 
minutes after eight.” 

“ ’Tis a gift,” Don grinned. “No, Butch tipped me 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

off that being here first was half the battle,” he ad¬ 
mitted. “But the book’s easy to fill in, just the honor 
code to sign and the usual questions.” 

An hour later, Joan hurried back to Roble a full- 
fledged Stanfordite, filled with a burning desire to 
proclaim the fact to the world in general. But Roble 
was filled with girls who had the same idea. She 
finally telephoned Hugh who invited her to lunch in 
Palo Alto to celebrate. 

Looking across at him over the little table Joan 
could see that the strain of his work was beginning to 
take its toll. 

“Hugh, can’t you relax a little? You seem terribly 
worn out?” 

Hugh grinned. “Poor, frail, little me! A hundred 
and eighty pounds, and on the Varsity, and you’d have 
me in a wheel chair!” 

“But I’m serious, Hugh.” 

“So am I,” he replied, “but I didn’t bring you here 
to talk about me. You’re the one who’s going to be the 
subject of our conversation today.” 

“I?” Joan looked startled. “What did I do?” 

“Nothing yet,” Hugh explained. “That’s what 1 
wanted to talk to you about. You’ve already found out 
that the Farm is a lot different than High School haven’t 
you?” 

“Entirely,” Joan agreed. 

“Well, as you continue you’ll find that it differs in 
many more ways, but the most important one is that it 


128 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

is a little world in itself, but still very much like the 
real world outside that you’re going into when you leave 
here. There are a million things to do on the campus 
outside of your academic work and the natural impulse 
is to join in every activity. I know I had that idea as 
a Freshman.” He shook his head ruefully at the 
memory. 

“What happened?” Joan interrupted, her interest 
fully aroused. 

“I tackled everything in sight the first two quarters 
and found I had bitten off a little more than I bargained 
for. It ended by my chucking everything during my 
last quarter and having one continuous cram session to 
keep from flunking. You know, even if you do fairly 
well in a subject you’re apt to be given a failure if the 
rest of the class does better. They use the class average 
as a measuring stick, and the fifteen percent of the 
students who have the lowest averages are generally in 
danger.” 

“That’s what Bobby told me,” Joan commented 
thoughtfully. “What do you suggest that I do?” 

“Just take it easy during your freshman year, and 
give yourself a chance. It’s much easier to start out 
slowly and wind up one’s Upper Division quarters 
playing a leading part in campus activities than it is to 
go after fame immediately, crack up, and then have to 
start all over again from scratch.” 

“I see what you’re driving at,” Joan admitted. “And 
darned if I didn’t intend to do just what you said you 


729 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

first did. I listed about twenty different things I in¬ 
tended to try for when I filed my activity card this 
afternoon. I guess I had better concentrate on one to 
begin with.” 

“Dramatics?” Hugh was grinning mischievously. 
“Honest Injun?” he teased. “You know the reviewers 
on the Daily are as tough as the Broadway critics. 
When the average student pays a quarter one has to 
give him a combination of The Birth of a Nation, 
Buffalo Bill and Greta Garbo all rolled into one or be 
prepared for a quick get-a-way. And as for actresses—” 
Hugh shook his head sadly. “You can’t ever say I 
didn’t warn you,” he added virtuously. 

“It’s getting late.” Joan ignored his teasing and looked 
at her watch. “Hadn’t we better get back? And 
thanks, Hugh, I do appreciate your advice.” 

“Gosh, yes!” Hugh jumped up. “I didn’t know it 
was almost two. Oh, one thing more. Don’t worry 
about that English matriculation exam tomorrow. 
You’ll probably just have to write a five hundred word 
theme on some simple subject.” 

# # # 

When classes began on Wednesday, Joan’s head was 
a whirl of rules, information, and ideas. “I wonder if 
I’ll ever get them all sorted out,” she mused, as she 
walked toward her nine o’clock French class. Both 
that class and her following period, Introduction to 
Social Problems, proved quite easy on the first day, 


iso 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

for the classes were still in the process of settling 
down and the usual routine did not actually begin until 
the following Monday. 

Arm in arm, Saxon and Joan left the Social Science 
class at eleven for both were free until afternoon. 

“Let’s go sit in one of the oases,” Saxon suggested, 
glad of a companion who fitted in with her quiet mood. 
Joan agreed and the two cut across the gravelled path 
to find seats among the palms and shrubbery of one 
of the eight circular garden plots. 

“You know,” Saxon tucked one foot under her and 
rested an arm along the back of the bench, “I like to sit 
here sometimes and pretend that I’m on a desert island, 
especially between classes. There are dozens of people 
passing all around me, and I can see them, but I feel 
almost invisible. I’ve never seen the ocean, but they 
say it’s not far from here.” She laughed at her own 
fancy. “All these people — it’s fun to pretend they’re 
fish in the big ocean all around. There are eels that 
wriggle through, or out of, anything, and whales that 
are the prominent men and women, and small fry like 
myself, and cat fish. Perhaps,” and Saxon’s smile was 
disarming, “it’s the only time I feel a bit superior. 
For the rest, I’m only too glad to try to fit in. 

“Oh, I know I’m different from the other girls,” she 
went on as Joan looked as though she might interrupt, 
“but it’s grand, even so, to be here.” 

“I don’t see why you say that,” Joan protested. 

Saxon shook her head. “I’m not like all of you, and 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

I’ll tell you why. That is—are you in a hurry?” 

As Joan shook her head, Saxon’s eyes regained their 
faraway look. She was seeing past the tiled roofs to 
the little, unpainted farmhouse with its big barns and 
fields in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley. 

“We haven’t much money, mother and father and I. 
Mother and I kept house for father and cooked for the 
hands. Aunt Mary helped us, only she was almost an 
invalid. We did like having her with us though. 
Father had to mortgage the place a few years back, 
and last year he had to do it again. When Aunt Mary 
died two years ago, she left me two thousand dollars. 
It was for me to use to go to Stanford she said. I 
thought we ought to pay off the mortgages, but Dad 
wouldn’t have it that way. And it had to be Stanford, 
even if it did cost more, because once Aunt Mary had 
driven through the Campus and she loved it. She had 
a picture of the Chapel over her bed. I don’t know 
how far the money will take me, but I may find 
enough work to do around here so that I can make it 
last quite a while. I’m staying with children some eve¬ 
nings on Faculty Hill, and I’ve a promise of dinner 
dishes to wash during the holiday parties. 

“I rode to High School on horseback back home, and 
believe me I hurried. There wasn’t any time to make 
friends, or to go to parties, and if there had been, I 
wouldn’t have had anything to wear. Just keeping 
clean was all I could manage. When the neighbors 
heard I was coming here, they collaborated and rigged 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

me out. This skirt I have on was made from an old 
coat of Ma Simpson’s, and the satin lining made 
the blouse.” 

Saxon rose with an odd little smile on her lips, “I 
didn’t mean to slip into the pity poor me’ class.” She 
paused, a little embarrassed now, and went on hesitat- 
ingly, “I just wanted to tell you myself, before someone 
else did. It didn’t seem that it would sound quite so 
badly that way—” she stopped. 

"I’m glad you did, Saxon,” Joan responded sincerely. 
“You know both Hugh and I are just barely managing 
to make ends meet too. I intend to copy themes and 
papers on my typewriter to help a bit and maybe I’ll 
get a bit of stenographic work to do. But right now,” 
she added briskly, “let’s go back to Roble and dig up 
something to eat. I’m nearly famished.” 

# # # 

In art class that afternoon, Joan straightened the fresh 
white sketch pad on her desk and stared at the block 
on the table in front of her. One was supposed to draw 
a straight line for the top front edge of the figure, 
another for the bottom, connect them at the sides, 
and then start on the mysteries of perspective. It was 
going to be fun, this perspective business, something like 
geometry, Joan told herself. 

The assignment was repetition for a good many who 
were taking the course, for they had advanced beyond 
this in high school, and those students, viewing the 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

block from an angle, started to draw immediately. 
It had not been until recent months, however, that 
Joan had felt that art might be a form of expression 
out of which she could fashion a career. She appreciated 
color in dancing waves, in crowds of people, and where- 
ever she encountered it in everyday life. Of course, 
there were more interesting things than squares and 
cubes and balls, but one had to begin at the beginning 
to make any progress. Again Joan squinted carefully 
along the edge of her pencil, and laid it on the paper at 
what seemed the proper angle. Something must have 
happened though, for the line shot up at such a 
peculiar slant. Better try again. Laboriously, she worked 
at the lines, straightening, erasing, straightening again. 
Most of the others had already finished when, finally, 
she began on the table line. 

“I’m afraid this side isn’t in line. Hold your pencil 
more this way. Isn’t that more as you see it? Try it 
again, Miss—ah—Whitney,” commented the instructor. 

Joan tried. And just as the bell for intermission rang, 
she straightened the last line, and leaned back with a 
sigh. Her shoulders felt cramped. It wasn’t easy. 
But oh, the gorgeous prospects that lay ahead. Portraits 
in glowing colors, outdoor sketching in pastels, and later 
in oils, and then illustration. The last would be the 
best of all for it contained action and suspense. 

A blue smock slipped past the groups of chattering 
students and paused beside Joan. 

“Selma!” 


i34 


10AN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Selma leaned toward Joan’s sketch, her blue-black 
hair catching the north light on its sleek surface. 
“Look, Joan, they converge. Like this.” She flicked 
off a thumbnail sketch in one corner of the paper. 
“Run them all to one point.” 

Joan thanked her gratefully. “I wonder if I’ll ever 
be able to do it?” 

“Of course you will if you try. You’re just new at it.” 

After Selma left, Joan hurriedly revised her drawing, 
leaving the tiny sketch to show that she had been 
helped. Then, carefully she removed the sheet of paper, 
laid it aside and turned to inspect the next model. 
There it stood defiantly, a cylinder smudged with use 
and completely baffling. Following directions carefully, 
Joan went at it with determination. Time ran away 
from her as she worked intently, tongue caught be¬ 
tween her teeth, hair drooping over her forehead. At 
last, the bell! Final criticism would be reserved for 
Monday’s class. 

Out in the sunshine, she walked across the Quad 
alone, drinking in the fresh air, and relaxing her 
tensed muscles. Goodness! French, history and biology 
rolled into one were nothing compared to the intricacies 
of art. To her, Selma assumed the proportions of a 
genius. 

“Hi!” a familiar voice broke in upon her reverie. 

“Don! Where did you come from?” 

“Look upon an expert on modern housing problems, 
that is, practically an expert. I’ve attended the first 


G5 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

lecture already, and in only ten or twenty years you’ll 
probably pick up your evening paper and big, black 
headlines will shout ‘Donald Bishop builds model low 
cost development on the rim of the Grand Canyon!’ 
Have to suggest it to the professor,” he reflected jovially. 
“The river just below would practically eliminate both 
the sewage problem and costs. Don’t let me forget, 
Miss Whitney.” 

“Yes, Mr. Bishop.” Joan tried to look meek. “But 
joking aside, Don, what are you going to have to do 
in class?” 

“It looks like we’re going to have to work. Yes, after 
due consideration, I believe that is Dr. Martin’s plan. 
And you know,” he added confidentially, “I don’t 
think he was fooling when he mentioned that fact to 
us today. Anyway he started off with a bang. Outlined 
the entire course and told us that he expected us each 
to complete plans for a model development by the end 
of the quarter!” 

“That should be easy for you, Don, fun in fact.” 

“I hae me doots about that, but it will be interesting. 
That professor can generate enthusiasm more effectively 
than anyone else I’ve ever seen. Why he got me so 
wound up that I started to make sketches of a little 
house before class was over.” 

“May I see it, or does it go in the ‘private and con¬ 
fidential’ file for a while, like some of Dad’s sketches 
do?” 

“Of course you can, if you want to.” Don had been 

136 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

hoping that she would ask. “The only reason your 
father ever locks up any plans is to keep a few jumps 
ahead of his rivals.” 

As they sat down on a little bench encircling a tree, 
Don handed her his loose-leaf notebook in which the 
sketches had been made. Joan looked at them carefully 
for several minutes without any comment. They were 
all variations of the same idea, little four room bunga¬ 
lows of ultra-modern design, low and practical, but 
depending entirely upon landscaping for relief from 
their bare lines. The type was highly in vogue at the 
present, but somehow it had never meant “home” to 
Joan. She absently ruffled the pages and as a loose 
sheet fell out a trace of annoyance flickered across her 
face. Joan didn’t know just what she could truthfully 
say to Don without quenching his enthusiasm. Picking 
up the fallen sheet, she glanced at it casually, then 
more closely. 

“And what’s this, Don?” she demanded. 

“Oh, that’s a little white stucco cottage I first drew 
in Fresno. I thought of several improvements the other 
day so I made another sketch. That’s the kind I’ll build 
for myself some day,” Don explained. 

Joan studied the drawing again. A rolling thatched 
roof hung over the little house much like heavy 
chocolate frosting on a white cake. A sturdy stone 
chimney climbed the low wall and ended unevenly at 
the top, much as though the builder had forgotten 
about it, or had gotten tired before it was finished. 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Shutters hung beside the windows, and a tiny tower 
encased its doorway, set off by a meandering path of 
stepping stones that led up from the street. 

“Why this is a perfect gem, Don!” Joan’s eyes 
sparkled. “That corner, where the stones have been 
set in, is the finishing touch. They give one the im¬ 
pression that it is a very old cottage built of solid 
stone and covered by plaster that is beginning to 
crumble. Where on earth did you get that idea?” 

“From a picture of one of the English castles, only 
it was the real thing over there. But what,” Don ques¬ 
tioned, “do you think of the ones I did today?” 

“I don’t like them as well as this,” Joan answered 
frankly. 

“But they’re two entirely different ideas, Joan. The 
one in your hands is my ideal. The others are designed 
for maximum efficiency and room at a minimum 
cost.” 

“So is an office building, or a barn, but who wants 
to live in either one?” Joan demanded bluntly. 

“Oh, don’t be silly, Joan,” Don rebuked, almost 
angrily, and then he stopped with a puzzled ex¬ 
pression on his face. “I begin to see what you mean,” 
he said slowly. “I’m sorry if I sounded irritated, but 
that remark, coming like a bolt out of the blue, didn’t 
make sense at first. You mean that even if they were 
perfect—” 

“They’d be nice buildings—nice houses. But none of 
them would make me think of home. That should be a 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

place that looks strong, or substantial at least, and has 
the atmosphere about it that makes even the casual 
passerby conscious of warmth and comfort inside. It 
must look friendly and inviting, yet casual and un¬ 
obtrusive. Above all, it must look as though people 
actually lived between its walls—laughing and crying, 
working, hoping and loving—” Joan stopped, a little 
out of breath, words, and ideas. 

Don was staring at her in startled amazement. 
Finally he broke the silence, “How did you think up 
all that so quickly? Seems like you’re the one that 
should be going in for house designing and not I!” 

“I didn’t think them all up,” Joan confessed. “They 
just were rattling around in the back of my head and 
they popped out. I believe they’re mostly my mother’s 
ideas really, for Dad used to work all day planning some 
house, and then Mom and he would spend most of the 
evening deliberately trying to pick flaws in it. Then 
he’d go to work and make any practical changes, and 
later they’d start tearing it apart again. That’s actually 
how he became so expert at it.” 

“But, Joan, even admitting that all that you say is 
true doesn’t alter the fact that a cottage like that can’t 
be built as cheaply, or as efficiently, as a modernistic 
house on more squarish lines.” 

“It probably couldn’t,” Joan agreed, “but if it were 
possible to save space here and there it would cut the 
costs a bit, wouldn’t it?” 

“Yes, but it’s so small now that I’m afraid if it shrinks 


J 39 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

any more it will disappear entirely.” Don was smiling 
at the idea. 

“I think though,” persisted Joan, “that maybe I can 
help to make the kitchen compact, yet practical. I 
always did want to help plan a house with decorations 
’n’ everything,” she added wistfully. 

“All right. I’ll tell you what we’ll do.” Don was 
amused but anxious to please. “You take both sets of 
sketches along home with you and see if you can work 
anything out, and I’ll keep thinking about it for the 
next little while. Who knows? We might hit on some 
idea that would work.” 

“I’ll try and— Oh, I’ve got to run. I’m late already!” 
Joan collected her books hurriedly. “I promised I’d 
meet Bobby over at Roble, and I’m ten minutes overdue 
already. See you later, and I promise I won’t lose your 
things,” Joan finished over her shoulder. 

# # # 

Roble hummed with activity the following Saturday 
night. The air was filled with giggles and groans, 
happy faces and woebegone expressions, elation, despera¬ 
tion, tears and starry eyes for the President’s reception 
was in the immediate offing, and the scramble to get 
ready in time threw the hall into an uproar. 

“Hey, Joan, are you ready?” Bobby called to her as 
Joan passed the suite’s door. 

“No. I’m just getting back from Quad. Are you?” 

“Yes, I am. But Dixie was pressing her blue crepe 


140 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

dress and she burned a hole in the blouse. Now, she 
says she can’t go and I’ll be jiggered if I can help her. 
I’m no wizard, you know.” 

“Let’s have a look.” Joan peeked around the door 
to where Dixie stood dismally before her mirror. All 
her natural gaiety was gone, and she was fingering a 
safety pin as she inspected a brown iron mark on the 
front of her blouse. Then, slipping away to her own 
room, Joan returned in a moment with a long grey 
scarf. This she drew around Dixie’s neck, distributing 
the folds evenly over the front of her dress, and tucking 
the ends through her blue belt. As she worked Dixie 
brightened visibly, becoming actually hilarious as she 
gazed into the mirror at the finished job, for, with 
the scarf’s folds hanging loosely and evenly, the effect 
was far better than the original one. Waving off Dixie’s 
thanks Joan dashed for her own room. “An hour to 
go and I haven’t even started to get ready!” she thought. 
“If I make it this time, I’ll never wait till the last 
moment again,” she promised herself. 

Out of that impossible confusion, a little while later, 
trickled a steady stream of cool, crisp, sedate young 
ladies. Roble Hall was going on parade! 

Slowly, Joan’s group walked up the hill toward 
the President’s mansion. 

“My knees are beginning to shake,” Yvonne con¬ 
fessed. “Maybe no one would notice if I didn’t get 
there?” she added hopefully. 

“Oh, no you don’t!” Dixie exclaimed. “Never shall 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

it be said that a Roble girl retreated in the face of 
danger,” she added virtuously. “But, gosh, I dreamt last 
night I slipped on the waxed floor just as I was about 
to say ‘Good evening’ to the President. Maybe it was 
meant to be a warning.” She looked so worried that 
all their forebodings were swept away in a burst of 
laughter. 

The events of the next two hours were always re¬ 
membered by Joan, not as separate incidents, but 
rather blended together into one continuously perfect 
picture. Her first glimpse of the mansion, which was 
later to become familiar to all of them; the receiving 
line with the President and his wife and other notables, 
whose faces and achievements were to become well 
known to Joan; the contact with faculty members 
later over tea; and seeing again, in this more formal 
atmosphere, the freshmen she had grown to know by 
sight—all combined to paint an indelible picture in her 
mind. And framing the scenes were always the 
memories of large quiet rooms, mellow with their 
soft colors and masses of flowers, and a huge patio where 
tea was served. 



Chapter Six 


J oan closed her eyes once again and everything 
swirled about in a mad, topsy-turvy manner, while 
her head seemed to sing. Ever since luncheon she had 
been resting on her couch, surrounded by pillows, al¬ 
ternating between attempts at reading the latest issue 
of the Chaparral, the campus magazine, and efforts to 
sleep. “Oh, why,” she groaned disgustedly, “didn’t I 
take care of this cold in the first place. I could have 
made up that work later.” At the memory of the past 
few days, and of her effort to catch up in her art work 
between sneezes, Joan yawned prodigiously. She rolled 
over and the Chaparral fell to the floor. 

“Perhaps,” she pondered, “if, instead of merely 


^43 


















JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

counting sheep, I were to count lions, and tigers, and 
elephants—” her thoughts, seeking refuge from her 
present annoyance, toyed with this fancy for a mo¬ 
ment and her eyelids drooped. “K-k-ka-kachoo-o!” 
The sneeze jarred her awake. “It’s no use,” she mut¬ 
tered miserably and sat up. Her eyes mournfully cir¬ 
cled the room and came to rest on the table beside 
her where some unfinished drawing plates still lay. 
Joan frowned and put her hand over her forehead. 
She felt as though she had forgotten to do something 
important. “But I can’t remember what it was,” she 
muttered to herself. Saxon! That was it. It was Saxon’s 
last day of posing before the portrait class. Joan 
looked at her watch. She still had time to get there 
before the class was over if she hurried. “I wonder if 
Betty succeeded in painting her as she planned?” Joan 
got up hurriedly, and was dressed in a few moments. 
Drawing a beret well down over her ears, and, muf¬ 
fling herself in a warm wool coat, she set off toward 
the Art Department, ignoring the fact that she had 
cut her own class because of her cold. 

Entering a big, bare classroom with a northern ex¬ 
posure, she slipped quietly into a seat against the wall. 
The room was bright with daubs of color, on palettes, 
on easels, and on the smocks of the portrait students 
who were industriously painting the model. Joan 
could see most of the nearly finished canvasses. From 
them, she looked up at Saxon. Betty, with broad bold 
strokes of her brush, had done a splendid character 
likeness of the model. The others had, perhaps, studied 


1 44 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Saxon too abstractedly. Yet, Betty did not seem satis¬ 
fied. A scowl drew her brows together. She worked 
swiftly, yet with growing hesitation. Joan, on her 
previous visits to the class had seen several other girls 
on the dais and all had seemed rather ordinary models, 
bored, a bit tired, and not at all beautiful in the merci¬ 
less light. Saxon, seated on a plain kitchen chair, 
seemed not to be posing at all. With hands clasped 
in her lap, she sat motionless. Her chin was lifted, 
and her eyes were dreaming out of the high windows 
at the clouds. “So might the Maid of Orleans have 
looked,” Joan thought, “when she listened for voices 
in the garden at Domremy—” Saxon glanced down, 
and the upward slant to her eyes gave her profile an 
elfin look that belied her saintly expression. She 
smiled at Joan, and, when the rest period was an¬ 
nounced, stepped down from the platform. 

“Let’s go ’round and see what they’ve done,” Joan 
suggested as Saxon joined her. 

They paused beside Betty. “You’re not satisfied, 
Betty?” Saxon asked. 

She shook her head. “I don’t know enough to do 
you properly. This broad, splashy way of painting isn’t 
you, really, but it’s all I have time for. But even with 
time, I don’t know enough. Some lines keep run¬ 
ning through my head: 

If one could have that little head of hers 
Fainted upon a background of pale gold, 

Such as the Tuscans early art prefersl 


*45 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“It would be marvelous, with your madonna braids. 
I’d love to do you well, just for my own satisfaction.” 

“Oh, Betty,” Saxon’s eyes sparkled, “you really mean 
that about me, even if it isn’t true? I’ll brush my hair 
every night with a will now, just to try to live up 
to what you said.” 

At this quick descent to the literal, Betty and Joan 
could not help muffled giggles. But Joan was impressed 
with what Betty had said, for Betty knew so much 
about painting, about media, styles, and the history 
of art and artists. She lived it, ate it, breathed it. Every¬ 
thing she saw became part of a picture. Acacias in 
full bloom against a blue sky might mean the joy of 
living to Joan, but to Betty they meant color harmony, 
texture contrast, pattern, or a dozen other things. Joan 
went over to the canvas, took up a brush, and touched 
Betty’s palette with it. The paint was the color of the 
highlight in Saxon’s hair! “I wonder,” she thought, 
“how long it will take me to learn to select colors as 
perfectly as Betty does.” Her confidence ebbed and 
then returned with surge as the work period began 
again. “Silly,” she scolded herself, “that picture of 
Don’s house would be simple if you’d only work at 
it,” and pulling her coat collar up about her throat 
Joan made her way quietly out of the room. 

Back at Roble, Joan cleared her work table by the 
simple expediency of dumping everything, unfinished 
art plates and all, onto her bed. Then, throwing off her 
coat, she pulled a drawer open and carefully began 

146 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

to assemble its contents on the table. A complete kit of 
pastels, tubes of the finest of oils in the primary colors, 
another box filled with water colors, some angles, 
curves, a ruler, a set of brushes, and six sheets of creamy 
bristol board were finally spread out to her satis¬ 
faction. In all, the material represented an outlay of 
about ten dollars which Joan had managed to save. 
She had meant to buy only a few pastels. Then, as 
her inexperienced hand had failed to produce the 
proper effects, she plunged deeper and deeper into her 
purse with the vague hope that the sheer quantity and 
completeness of her supplies would offset her lack of 
training. 

Picking up one of the boards, Joan carefully stud¬ 
ied it. The scene was to be an artist’s impression of 
a street with Don’s “tumbled down shack” as Joan 
had christened it as the central structure, and houses 
of similar design on either side. After her talk with 
Don some weeks back, she had decided to attempt 
the painting in an effort to persuade him to concentrate 
on that type of house instead of his modernistic de¬ 
sign. At first, she had gone at the preliminary sketching 
casually. Then, as difficulty after difficulty arose, her 
determination grew in proportion. Now finishing it 
had become a matter of honor and general peace of 
mind with her. 

The center house seemed in proportion, for she 
had traced, measured and redrawn it from Don’s 
sketch. The surrounding cottages presented the prob- 


x 47 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

lem. They required at least a working knowledge of 
perspective, and Joan was still having difficulty with 
that, at least to her, elusive phase of art. 

Joan’s brow creased into a frown. Vainly she puz¬ 
zled over the picture. “What on earth could cover 
those harsh lines?” she demanded of the world at 
large, and suddenly came an inspiration. “Trees! 
Why didn’t I think of that before? They’re round, so 
I won’t need to use perspective on them. I can just 
make the ones in the foreground large, and those far 
away small. And they do grow in front of houses.” 
Just a few quick strokes as a landscape artist she had 
once watched had done, and all her headaches would 
evaporate! “Wh-e-e,” Joan exclaimed gaily, “am I 
good, or am I good?” 

An hour later she paused for the ’teenth time. The 
effect was no better. She stared out of the window 
at the nearest tree, then at her board where at one 
side of the group of houses an odd shaped cloud 
seemed to rest on a telegraph pole. On the other side 
a gaunt looking tree stretched its limbs upward. They 
were only partially covered by innumerable stiff¬ 
looking leaves like a porcupine’s quills. 

Feverishly, she began to work once more with a 
dark green pastel. Instead of improving, the trees 
became more awkward looking. With careful little 
touches, and then with increasing speed and impa¬ 
tience, she vainly tried to capture the effect of trees 
covered with foliage. Suddenly, Joan stopped. The 

148 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

combination of her cold, her headache, and frustration 
was too much. With savage fury she picked up the 
unfinished painting and hurled it across the room, 
then she swept the paints into the wastebasket and 
threw herself down on the bed sobbing. 

Dimly she heard a soft knock at her door, but paid 
no heed. What difference did it make who called? 
They couldn’t help her. And even if she did cry, that 
was her affair. The only place girls didn’t cry was in 
books, and they were never such hopeless failures! 
Why couldn’t Hugh be around when she wanted him, 
instead of being up at his house entertaining prospective 
fraternity pledges? 

Joan felt a weight on the bed beside her, and a soft 
cool hand stroked her head. She sniffled and buried 
her head still farther into the pillow. “Go ’way. Go 
’way, please, go ’way,” she muttered. 

“Joan, dear, it’s Selma. What’s wrong? Come, sit 
up.” 

“Won’t! I can cry if I want to.” 

“Cry, yes. Flood the building, no,” Selma corrected. 
“Besides,” she added firmly, “you’re not crying. You’re 
bawling.” 

“Can I help it if I—” Joan turned her head and looked 
up. “I was not bawling,” she denied between sniffles, 
her pride aroused. 

“Well, maybe not,” Selma admitted with a faint 
smile, “but I’m very glad you don’t do it often. Why 
right now they’ve got all the fire engines in Palo Alto 


149 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

trying to pump the water off the Quad. All the base¬ 
ments are flooded and—and—” As her imagination 
failed her, the two girls giggled. Joan’s troubles were 
momentarily forgotten. 

“Now,” Selma demanded, as they paused for breath, 
“what’s this all about.” 

“Well,” Joan brushed a vagrant tear away and 
looked toward where she had thrown the painting. 

“Was it this?” Selma held out the offending board. 
“I picked it up as I came in,” she explained. Joan 
nodded. “Why in the world are you trying to do an 
architectural landscape when you haven’t even com¬ 
pleted your preliminary course ? Don’t you know that’s 
about the hardest thing you could tackle?” 

“I found that out very quickly,” Joan nodded sor¬ 
rowfully, “but I tried, and tried, and tried to get it 
finished. I wanted to surprise Don with it.” 

“Don?” 

“Yes, it’s a house he drew, and I was going to make a 
picture that would show how a whole development 
would look. He did the sketch in his Civic Planning 
course. And I got prices on everything needed to 
build it from dad.” Joan looked on the verge of 
tears again. 

“All right, if you have to have it, you have to have 
it. Now go into my room and freshen up, and I’ll see 
if I can help,” Selma directed hastily in a brisk, 
authoritative tone. 

Joan brightened visibly and slowly went to do as she 


130 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

was bidden, while through the doorway Selma kept 
up a running comment. 

“Where did you put the paints and things?” 

“They’re—I threw them in the wastebasket,” Joan 
sheepishly admitted. 

“Oh, you did?” Selma mimicked. “Well, I know 
a little girl who’s very apt to get paddled if any more 
good paints get thrown into baskets in her room,” she 
added grimly as she retrieved the supplies. 

Joan, looking in a glass, couldn’t quite believe her 
eyes. The paint smudges mixed with tears made her 
face look as though she had just been eating straw¬ 
berry jam—with more haste than precision. But in 
a few minutes, soap and water had practically eradi¬ 
cated all traces of her outburst except rather red looking 
eyes, and they had been red. And her eyes had al¬ 
ready been red from her cold, she consoled herself. 

As she returned to her room, Joan was rather 
ashamed and embarrassed. She tried to think of some¬ 
thing to say that wouldn’t sound too stilted. “I—” she 
began hesitantly. 

Selma interrupted without turning, “Do these pre¬ 
cious trees have to be stuck in front of the houses?” 

“No, I just—” 

“Good! Never could draw a decent tree.” Selma 
glanced up at Joan’s work propped up in front of 
her, and began to sketch on a piece of board. “Think 
I can make a better job of the houses alone and some 
trees in the background.” 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Do you think you can—” again Joan was inter¬ 
rupted. 

“Well, don’t expect the Louvre to come searching 
for it, but maybe we can fix it up well enough to 
get by.” 

“Say what’s going on in here?” Yvonne was stand¬ 
ing in the doorway watching the two. 

“Oh, come in, Yvonne,” Selma directed over her 
shoulder glad of someone to relieve the tension. “No,” 
she contradicted herself, “see if you can round up 
Dixie, and Bobby, and, I think Geneve has a date— 
well, get Saxon and anybody else you can find and 
bring them up here.” 

“What are you going to do,” Yvonne asked, with a 
rather startled expression. 

“Joan has a bad cold and she’s going to hop into 
bed, and we’re going to have a party right here.” Selma 
was matter of fact. 

“I’m not going—” Joan started to protest. 

“Either you’re in your pajamas and under those 
covers in exactly two minutes, or else!” Selma threat¬ 
ened. 

“Tell them we’re having a house building party up 
here,” she continued to Yvonne, “and tell them all that 
there’s apt to be sad cases of starvation if they don’t 
bring some food along. Better make Bobby a com¬ 
mittee of one to see that they do,” she reflected. 

“But the rally for the game with Southern California 
is tonight,” Yvonne pointed out. 


1 5 2 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Yvonne, dear,” Selma’s voice was so sweet Joan ex¬ 
pected an explosion momentarily, “have you ever 
heard of The Message to Garcia?” 

“Why, yes, of course. I think it was in the fourth 
grade,” Yvonne reminisced cheerfully, “and the teacher 
said—” 

“And what did teacher say?” Selma turned in her 
chair and regarded Yvonne sternly. 

“I—I’m going!” Yvonne fled without further de¬ 
bate. 

Two hours later the room buzzed with the chatter 
of six of the Roble girls. Yvonne was curled up at the 
foot of Joan’s bed, Sandra had possession of the arm 
chair, while Bobby and Dixie balanced themselves 
on the colorful leather hassocks that Joan had pur¬ 
chased for just such occasions as this. 

“You know,” Yvonne confided earnestly, “what I’d 
like to be just once, is sort of exotic in a satin dress 
or something, with eyelashes about an inch long, and 
long fingernails like the Chinese have, and—” 

“And then,” Dixie finished off, “you’d saunter the 
Row past the Fraternity houses?” 

Yvonne nodded hesitantly. For a moment there was 
a dead silence, and then a wave of laughter swept 
the group at the thought of Yvonne, whom they re¬ 
garded as their ‘baby,’ posing as a siren. 

“Never mind, Yvonne,” Joan consoled her, “we’ve 
all had practically the same idea at one time or an- 


1 53 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

other, but none of us will admit it. Or will we?” she 
looked around. 

A faint sheepish nodding of heads confirmed her 
statement. 

“To get down to the more serious facts of life, am 
I, or am I not going to make the Freshman Debating 
Squad?” Dixie sighed. 

“Oh, Dixie, tell me about last Wednesday,” Joan 
begged, “Hugh took me to Palo Alto and I missed 
all the fun.” 

“You mean the Dutch Treat Debate with Encina?” 
Joan nodded. 

“Well Katherine Redding, she’s that dark haired 
girl with glasses, and Barbara Stanley and I took 
the positive position, and declared that Roble women 
should go fifty-fifty on dates, while three of Encina’s 
ablest took the negative side. We claimed that the men, 
thus having more money to spend on clothes, would 
be even more handsome. And did the Encina crowd 
cheer at that?” Dixie grinned at the recollection. “And 
that we’d get more and better dates. They countered 
with the old tradition theme, and then said that it 
was not only anti-social for women to pay half of 
the expenses on dates, but that it costs more for a girl 
to be dressed well than for a man.” Dixie stopped, 
searching her mind for more details. 

“Don’t forget their remarks about ‘romance being 
put on a monetary basis,’ and ‘should Roble girls be 


*54 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

known as West Coast Amazons,’ ” Bobby supplied 
helpfully. 

“Anyway, who won?” Joan asked. 

“Dixie’s trio did, of course,” Sandra told her, “but 
they almost put us all on the spot doing it.” 

“How?” 

“That was one debate we just couldn’t afford to 
win.” Sandra explained. “They might have held us to 
the decision. I still think our winning was a frame-up. 
You see the winner was chosen by the audience, and 
the men Encina arrived in force. Betty finally rescued 
us after the decision had been announced by explaining 
ever so gently to the men that the debate was all in the 
spirit of good clean fun, and that our opinions and 
arguments as expressed were merely for debating 
purposes and were not to be taken seriously.” 

“Hello! Did I hear my name being taken in vain?” 
Betty stuck her head in through the open door. “Should 
I stay and defend myself against the foul charges? Or 
shall I steal quietly away?” She grimaced in mock 
indecision and terror. 

“Right at the opportune moment!” Selma jumped up. 
“Come on in and sit down. And have some cookies.” 
She gestured toward a plate piled with cakes that she 
had been zealously guarding. 

“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” Betty replied with 
good-natured suspicion. “Methinks a sad fate awaits 
me, but ’tis better it does when I’m well fed and happy 


7 55 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

than when I’m starving,” she added philosophically. 
“Why aren’t you at the rally. They’re really going to 
town over in the Gym!” 

“Joan has a terrible cold,” Bobby explained, “and 
Selma and she have been working on a painting of a 
house Don Whitney is designing. So, we decided to 
make a party of it.” 

“But now I’m about stumped,” Selma admitted. 
“Perspective and trees stopped Joan, and then I got 
around the trees by putting them in the distance. 
But the sky looks terribly ill, and the grass looks like 
green cement, not to mention the shrubbery.” She 
handed the picture to Betty. 

“I’ll be glad to help if I can,” Betty offered. 

“H-mmn,” she nodded. “Those are darling houses, 
but the clouds and ground— Let’s see, now. Where 
are the blue pastels? Oh, never mind, I have them.” 
In a few seconds, Betty was bent over the board blend¬ 
ing her own work with that of Joan and Selma. 

Quiet reigned for the next five minutes while the 
girls watched Betty’s progress. 

At last Joan spoke up. “Don’t you hate to think of 
ever leaving Stanford ? It seems as though we’d always 
stay here.” 

“You won’t feel that way when you’re a senior. 
You’ll be ready for other things,” Yvonne consoled her. 

“What other things ? Leaving college isn’t fun these 
days. The world outside’s so upside-down.” 

“That’s why it will be interesting. That’s what we’re 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

fitting ourselves to meet.” Betty’s tones were de¬ 
cisive. “It doesn’t matter if we’re hurt, or if we’re not 
happy. We’ll be so alive. We’ll help to find a solution.” 

“But I want to be happy,” Yvonne protested. “I 
want to go back to Garretville and be married and have 
a home with turquoise blue and cream tiled bathrooms. 
I want a white Colonial house, and a little girl with 
blond curly hair, and a boy two years older than 
the girl.” 

“I hope that you’ll get what you want,” Selma sighed. 
“Perhaps it will all run very smoothly for you.” 

“Well,” Joan admitted, “I’m just weak enough right 
now to wish college might go on forever. But of 
course, I’ll probably change my mind long before 
graduation. By the way, Sandra, what do you expect 
to do when you leave here?” 

“I don’t know,” Sandra answered slowly. And then, 
“Yes, I do too, but I just don’t like to admit it even to 
myself. I’ve always wanted to become a doctor, ever 
since I was six years old, and I broke an arm when I 
fell from my pony. I’ve realized lately, though, that 
it just won’t work out that way.” 

“Why not?” Bobby asked. 

“For the same reason that I don’t drive that speed¬ 
ster around the campus every day. It just isn’t being 
done. It’s impractical. When one’s father owns a 
chain of department stores, and has three or four mil¬ 
lion dollars, and one’s name has been in the social 
register for ’nth generations, life becomes just as com- 


'57 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

plicated and restricted as if one were poor. If I started 
to do any scientific work, no one would take me seri¬ 
ously. They’d claim I was doing it for publicity. 
No, I’ll probably travel abroad for a year or so after 
I leave Stanford, and then marry and settle down. 
I guess,” she spoke thoughtfully, “in a way, I’m not 
sorry though. Being wealthy has its advantages as 
well as its drawbacks. Financing some really bril¬ 
liant medical student’s research would be a whole lot 
more practical from my standpoint and,” Sandra re¬ 
flected, “it would be of a great deal more actual benefit 
to science. But enough of me! How about you, 
Dixie?” 

“My fame shall be carried on the wings of the wind 
to the farthest corner of the earth! And wherever 
two Americans, or Englishmen, or Chinamen meet, 
the name of Dixie Calhoun will be mentioned. Why, 
from Singapore to Times Square people will think of 
me and say, ‘If Dixie Calhoun were only here! Why 
she could have this traffic summons fixed just like 
that!’ ” Dixie snapped her fingers gaily. 

“Once upon a time,” Bobby looked dreamily at the 
ceiling, “I heard a rumor that a little girl paid two 
dollars for a parking violation right here in Palo Alto. 
Let’s see now, what was her name?” 

“Touche” Dixie grinned, “but you wait. Some day 
I’ll even make the Supreme Court change its mind.” 

“Oh, another politician,” Selma groaned, and ducked 
as a pillow came flying at her. 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Nay, strictly a lawyer. It will take about seven 
years more, but I’ll eventually get there.” 

“But what chance will you have when you do get 
admitted to the bar,” Bobby questioned. “There are 
thousands of lawyers almost starving now.” 

“Things may have changed by the time I’m able 
to practice. And anyway, all professions and industries 
are overcrowded today, except at the top. I’ll begin 
like all the rest, taking what I can get, if anything, 
and then I’ll just work and wait for a break. Usually, 
it’s an average man or woman against a corporation, 
and a lawyer who can win even a fair percentage of 
the time has a fairly good chance of really getting some¬ 
where. You see, the big corporations generally em¬ 
ploy the cream of the legal talent, and, if one can beat 
them, the rest is easy.” 

“Well, I’m still headed for a business career,” Bobby 
contributed. “But it does sound so dreadfully dull com¬ 
pared to your plans. Can you imagine working for a 
manufacturer of breakfast foods, or thumb tacks?” 

“I don’t know. Being a secretary to the manager of a 
business will be a great deal more simple than trying 
to design a new package for his latest, most glamorous 
cereal or thumb tack. You’ll only have one man to 
please, or, at the most, three or four, but if his wife’s 
second cousin doesn’t like my design then I’m apt to 
have to do it over.” Selma paused, “I almost think I’ll 
chuck commercial art and design and really try to 
paint. How about it, May?” 


'59 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“I am not so sure that you’d find painting, por¬ 
trait or any other kind, any less full of headaches. 
It would take a long time to build up a reputation 
doing landscapes unless a miracle occurred, and in 
portrait work you’d also find it hard sledding until 
you became famous. No artist would mind the hard¬ 
ships or the difficulties if the subjects were really 
worthwhile. I mean,” she amended, “worthwhile as 
models, and if the artist could really paint what he 
saw. Mostly though, it’s like retouching a photo¬ 
graph. One either enhances the client’s best features 
and ignores the poor ones or one just doesn’t get much 
work to do.” 

“Now we just need to hear from Geneve and Saxon, 
and we’d have a complete record,” Bobby announced. 
“This crowd has certainly let down its hair tonight! 
Where are those two, anyway?” 

“Saxon is over at Professor McCullough’s. She’s tak¬ 
ing care of the children tonight while he and Mrs. 
McCullough are up in the city. I don’t know where 
Geneve is,” Joan explained. 

“I think she’s gone to a party,” Selma volunteered. 
“She left early.” 

Betty looked troubled. “I wish she’d slow down a 
little bit. I’ll bet she hasn’t missed a party since she’s 
been here, and it’s bound to reflect sooner or later on 
her work. I know that it’s really none of my business,” 
she reflected, “but I can’t help but feel that she could 
be a real success here if she’d only be more natural. 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

She’s trying to be too sophisticated and ‘smart’ for her 
own good.” 

“Saxon ought to take her in tow,” Bobby suggested, 
and she smiled at the thought of how Geneve would 
react to that plan. 

“Mightn’t be such a bad idea, at that,” Betty agreed, 
“only it would never work in a million years. Saxon’s 
far too direct. Any attempt to change Geneve’s view¬ 
point would have to be very subtle, and no one here 
has time for that. She’ll stub her toe a few times and 
then snap out of it. A lot of girls do when they get 
to college.” 

“I wonder what Saxon will eventually do?” Selma 
pondered. 

“She said she was going to teach school,” Joan 
told her. 

“Maybe she will, but somehow I think she’ll change 
her mind.” Dixie absentmindedly attempted to twist 
a curl into her bangs with a finger as she spoke. “Have 
you ever noticed Saxon’s tendency to question the 
textbook’s veracity if she has any doubts, and of going 
to any lengths in research to discover the exact solu¬ 
tion? She’d be excellent at giving a course in a big 
university later on, but a total flop in a small High 
School, for the parents would object if her teachings 
didn’t correspond to what they had been taught in 
the same grades. Her idea of ‘the truth, the whole 
truth, and nothing but the truth’ just wouldn’t work!” 

“It would make her an excellent newspaper woman, 

161 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

though,” Betty interposed, “and, by the way, Joan, 
why haven’t you made more efforts in that direction?” 

“Never thought of it.” 

“Well, you have the necessary qualifications.” 

“Such as?” 

“Imagination, brains, coolness. You’re sensible and, 
from the papers I’ve seen of yours, I’d say you have 
a flair for it. You’d need a lot of training of course, 
but the essentials are there.” 

“I thank thee kind friend for all the bouquets,” 
Joan grinned as she bowed her head in derisive ac¬ 
knowledgment, “and perhaps, if art and I don’t get 
any nearer to some sort of a working arrangement, I’ll 
take your advice.” 

“Would—would it be out of order amidst all of 
this solemnity to mention the fact that I’m thirsty?” 
Bobby asked timidly. 

“So am I,” Dixie joined in, “Let’s get some ‘cokes.’ ” 

“Who’s dressed? Yvonne, you’re elected, everyone 
else is in her pajamas or sumpthin’ except May, and 
she’s busy. Skip down like a good girl and get—let’s 
see, three, four, seven bottles, will you?” 

“I’ll need some more nickels. I’ve only three and 
that machine just hasn’t learned to make change 
yet.” 

“I’ve got two,” Bobby volunteered, “And—ah, Joan 
has the other two.” 

“Be back in a jiffy,” Yvonne promised. 

“This is about the best I can do,” Betty held the fin- 


162 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

ished picture up at last. “What do you think of it?” 

“Why, it’s perfect!” Joan exclaimed. “Don will 
love it!” 

“What is he going to do with it now?” Betty asked 
curiously. 

“I don’t know, exactly. The fact is, he doesn’t even 
know I started work on it. I wanted it to be a com¬ 
plete surprise. I can finish up the sketches of the 
rooms tomorrow, and I’ve collected a lot of data 
on costs and things. Now if I can only get him to 
figure out how to shave off a little of the construction 
costs, it’ll be all set.” 

“Does Dr. Martin know you’re working with Don?” 

“Does he?” Joan echoed. “I’ve been trailing him 
around asking so many questions that he said he’s 
going to call me his shadow.” 

“I wonder what’s happened to Yvonne?” Dixie 
looked a bit anxious. “She should have been back long 
ago.” 

“Let’s go down and find out,” Bobby proposed. 
“Here, slip Joan’s coat on.” 

Without further ado the two scurried off in search 
of their missing companion. They found no trace 
of her until they reached the door of the clubroom 
in the basement, and then they stopped in amazement. 
Yvonne was crouched on the floor beside the big 
dispensing machine laughing till the tears rolled down 
her cheeks. Bottles of soda were on a table, on the 
floor, everywhere! 

163 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Plop! Another bottle slid out of the cabinet’s depths. 

“Sixty-one,” Yvonne gasped, catching it, “sixty-two, 
sixty-three.” She waited poised to catch the next bot¬ 
tle, but none came. 

“What happened?” Dixie and Bobby ran to her, 
laughing. 

“That thing, it just wouldn’t stop,” Yvonne vainly 
tried to catch her breath, and then started giggling 
again. “I put in a nickel and a bottle came out. Then 
it worked all right, till I got five, and on the sixth 
the deluge began.” 

“Sixty-three bottles,” she sighed, “and I still have 
a nickel left!” 

“Oh, that sounds like the Pajamarino! Come on, 
let’s get back to the room. Here, take a couple. We 
still need seven bottles.” 

“What about the rest?” Yvonne asked. 

“Never mind those, and stick that other nickel in 
the slot— No,” she cautioned, “better not. The thing 
might start up again. Leave it on the table and let’s 
get going.” 

Back in the room the girls joined the group on the 
balcony to get as good a view as possible. 

“Look, I see them coming! Oh, they’re still ’way 
on the other side of the Campus. Doesn’t it look 
mysterious with all those torchlights winding around?” 

As the girls waited, drinking the soda Yvonne had 
worked so hard to get, the long procession drew nearer. 
Finally, it circled the Hall and came to a standstill. 

164 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Concealed by the darkness, the girls looked on with 
excitement. Five hundred strong, the freshmen stood, 
dressed in pajamas and rooter’s caps, the torches cover¬ 
ing them with dancing patterns of light and darkness. 
In a moment, they burst into song: 

In the days of long ago the mighty Trojan host 
Held that they were the warriors supreme; 

But a little wooden horse upset their haughty boast, 
And their glory was only a dream . 

Now the Trojans have a namesa\e down at Southern 
Cal, 

And they're boastful as boastful can be; 

But they're goin' to meet their master, for the Cardinal 
Will play horse with old U. S. C. 

For a moment, there was an undertone of voices 
from below as the torches bobbed about, then, in the 
quiet, the strains of Juanita rose to the girls above. 
“Isn’t it grand?” Selma sighed. 

“Perfect! I read about this in the freshman bible, 
but to tell the truth, I’d forgotten all about it.” 

A burst of applause, just then, from the rooms 
beneath, gave the boys assurance that they were ap¬ 
preciated. They went on, one song following an¬ 
other. Finally, from the windows of Roble came a 
shower of fruit, cookies and candy, which the boys 
caught adroitly. 

With Good Night, Ladies, the serenade was over, 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

and the long procession started on its way to Palo 
Alto. 

As the boys gradually dispersed, the group of girls 
in the room above began to break up and start for 
their respective rooms. 

“Wait a minute, Selma,” Joan protested as the lat¬ 
ter started to leave. “I want to thank—” 

“You hop back into bed this minute, or I’m really 
going to get peeved! If you so much as even think 
of getting really ill after all the energy I’ve put into 
that!” Selma looked very fierce. “Good night,” she 
added with a smile and slipped out. 

“Good night,” Joan called after her, “and thanks!” 
She sleepily pulled the covers higher, and a happy, 
peaceful smile stole over her face. 


166 



Chapter Seven 


A nd I’ll solo before the year’s up,” Del finished jubi¬ 
lantly. 

“You’re really serious? You’re not joking about fly¬ 
ing?” Joan looked a little skeptical. 

“No, it’s not expensive. Why, it will only cost me 
about sixty dollars for instruction enough to fly alone. 
Hutch Banning, you know, the president of Hugh’s 
house, has a plane of his own. He’s the one who really 
got me started.” 

“But what does your father think of the idea, or 
haven’t you told him yet?” Joan looked worried. 
“Well, I won’t say he was exactly overwhelmed 

i6y 









JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

with enthusiasm, but he said that if I wanted to fly 
I would eventually anyway, so I might as well begin 
now.” 

“I guess he’s right,” Joan agreed. “When do you 
start?” 

“Saturday, I hope. That is, if the weather is good. 
Do you think it will be?” he squinted at the blazing 
sun and cloudless sky. 

She laughed. “Almost a week to go and you demand 
a weather forecast! If the past week is any indication 
though, you can relax.” 

“By the way, congratulations, Joan, on your nomina¬ 
tion for the office of secretary-treasurer of the Fresh¬ 
man Class.” Del looked pleased. 

“You forgot to mention the other twelve who also 
are going after the same office!” Joan was rather 
amused. 

“Thirteen altogether? That’s nothing! There are 
nineteen running for President! I’m hoping though, 
that Butch will get it. You know, Don was also in the 
general scramble, but he decided he had enough to 
to do right now. He’s entirely too conscientious,” Del 
decided mournfully. 

“It’s really not important enough to worry about, 
except as a stepping stone to a later Student Body 
office. You know class officers haven’t anything very 
much to do, especially the freshman ones.” 

“I hope you get it anyway, Joan, but right now I’ve 
got to about face and get back to the library. I’ve 


168 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

got some real cramming to do. The ex’es are coming 
a bit too soon to suit me.” 

“See you later.” Joan started briskly toward the 
Cellar to keep a date with Don. 

She found him in one of the booths busily engaged 
with a pencil and notebook, and a frown was unde¬ 
cided on whether it was going to stay or leave his 
forehead. 

“I’ve almost got it, Joan! Sit down and look at 
these figures. Our costs are only nine hundred dollars 
higher than those of the cheapest and plainest looking 
shack, and our design will really be something to 
look at.” 

“What does Dr. Martin think?” 

“He says I’ll have to cut the costs down four hundred 
dollars more, and then I’ll be all set. I think I’m 
the only one in the class who is not doing, or attempt¬ 
ing to do, a streamlined house.” 

“Why can’t you take a percentage of that from the 
furniture budget?” Joan asked. “After all, that’s 
one of the basic expenses people have to face when 
they plan a house if they want the interior to conform 
with the outside design.” 

“That’s true,” Don admitted, “but I don’t exactly 
see how you can cut furniture costs. It’s going to take 
just so many pieces to furnish the house adequately.” 

“Suppose I plan the decorations and check up on the 
prices? Perhaps if you have an itemized statement of 
costs, you can put it through as that of a completely 

169 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

furnished home, and the difference between the usual 
allowance for furniture and our estimates may allow 
you to charge part of the four hundred off that way.” 

“Gee, you’ve been grand, Joan, and I do appreciate 
it. That painting was what really made me start de¬ 
sign in earnest.” 

“Well, Selma and Betty did most of that,” Joan told 
him, “and I really think they enjoyed it, too. Give 
me a little time, though, and I’ll dig up some more 
data on the furnishings. You’d probably want to do 
the entire house as one big den if I didn’t keep an eye 
on you.” 

“Now that you mention it, that wouldn’t be such a 
bad idea,” Don grinned. “Why just imagine a house 
without all of those doo-gee-hunkers women insist 
on, like drapes, and curtains, and chairs that look too 
pretty and too fragile to use!” 

“Hush!” Joan scolded. “Oh, here comes Hugh!” 

Hugh, with a smile, joined them, and after a few 
minutes Don went on to his next class. 

“Hugh, you look as tired as ever. Don’t you ever 
get any rest?” Joan demanded when they were alone. 

“I sure do. The coach practically tucks me into bed 
every night about ten. You know I’m in training and 
I’ve got to get sleep as a matter of routine.” Hugh 
grinned at his perfect alibi. 

“Nevertheless—” Joan began. 

“Well, to tell the whole truth, this last week has 
been a little harder than usual. We’ve been entertain- 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

ing up on the Row for the third time, and the possible 
candidates are rather narrowing down to those who’ll 
probably receive bids,” Hugh explained. 

“Do you think Don, and Del, and Butch will be 
pledged?” 

“I don’t know about Del and Butch. I believe they’re 
going into another house, but I’m sure that Don will 
be one of our pledges.” 

“Is it very important, Hugh ? I mean being pledged 
to a fraternity?” 

“What you really mean is are sororities important?” 
Hugh had a twinkle in his eye. 

“Well, sort of— Yes,” Joan admitted. 

“If you’re worrying about being invited to join one, 
don’t. The odds, in your particular case, happen to 
be in your favor, but anyway it’s not worth losing any 
sleep over.” 

“But aren’t they important?” 

“Here on the campus, during rushing season, they 
are. That is, if it’s prestige you’re thinking of, but 
otherwise it doesn’t make very much difference where 
you live.” 

“What about after graduation?” 

“After graduation, you’re supposed to be grown up, 
and grown men and women have more important 
things to think about than whether someone else did, 
or did not, join a fraternity or sorority. I’d like you to 
join one though, just for the experience, and then, oc¬ 
casionally, you will meet a few folks after graduation 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

who cling firmly to the belief that a college woman 
who didn’t ‘make’ a sorority was a social failure. 
They’re oldfashioned, but once in a while, they are 
important. The same thing applies to Don, and my¬ 
self for that matter. We can’t get ahead professionally 
later only because we were Deltas, but some time it 
might be helpful. Right now it’s a lot of fun.” 

“Well, opinions vary so much that I just thought I’d 
ask you,” Joan said thoughtfully. 

“How’s everything else going?” 

“Much better than at first. I’m rather getting used 
to being a Stanfordite, and there really aren’t so many 
rules and regulations. When I first arrived, I was al¬ 
ways afraid I’d do something wrong, but now things 
like remembering to get back to Roble by ten-thirty 
at night are second nature. Now all I have to worry 
about is the exams.” 

“Well,” Hugh was philosophic, “there’s no point 
worrying about them. Just take it calmly. Work every 
day, and then give yourself a session of general re¬ 
viewing before they’re due. You’ll notice that the stu¬ 
dents who are getting a fairly good average haven’t 
much trouble with exams, final or semi-final.” 

“That sounds good,” Joan agreed doubtfully, “but it’s 
rather hard to keep calm about each ex as it comes 
along.” 

“One fellow in my Sophomore year did succeed,” 
Hugh reminisced. “I’ll bet he didn’t look at a book 
more than once or twice a week until the exams came 
into sight. Then, suddenly, he went into a wild cram 


172 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

session from dawn till dusk. He finally managed to 
get through all the exams but French by the skin of 
his teeth, but French really stumped him. The morn¬ 
ing of that exam he grasped at one last straw. Pick¬ 
ing his papers up he went over to Chapel, and sat 
there while he filled out his blue-book!” 

“Did he pass?” Joan held her breath anxiously. 

“Huh ? That’s a woman for you,” her brother 
groaned, “spoiling a good story! Of course he passed. 
And he always insisted that it was the prayers he said 
that did it. Now run along back to Roble and play 
with the other little girls,” he advised with a grin, “and 
I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ve got work to do!” 

Back at Roble, Joan stopped for a moment at 
Geneve’s door. “Oh, Geneve,” she asked, “has your 
dress come yet?” 

Geneve, lying on her couch idly thumbing a maga¬ 
zine raised her eyebrows. “Dress? Which one?” 

“The one from The Vanity that they’re going to let 
you use for the Convalescent Home fashion show.” 

“You mean dresses. I’m to change six times. Yes, 
they’re here.” 

“May I see them?” 

“They’re in the closet.” Geneve swung her lithe body 
off the couch and drew aside the curtain. “I haven’t 
had them on since they came. Tell me how I look.” 
She slipped into a green tweed jacket with collar and 
front panels of red fox, and then reached for the little 
green antelope turban. 

“The fellows ought to see you in that!” Joan ex- 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

claimed enthusiastically, “or maybe it isn’t necessary. 
Have you decided who’s to be allowed to take you 
to the Sophomore Cotillion yet?” 

Geneve hesitated. “No, not yet,” she replied, and 
gave her attention to the suit. “Look, it’s much too 
loose about the waist. I wonder if moving the button 
will make it lit? And this blouse is much too fussy.” 
She tossed it on the couch. “It’s lines that count—” 
Geneve drew herself to the fullness of her slender 
height, and then relaxed into a graceful pose. “The 
hat’s perfect, don’t you think? There is such a grand 
sweep to it and yet it shows such a lot of hair. That’s 
the important—” The buzzer on her wall interrupted, 
and she pressed the button in acknowledgment. “Back 
in a moment,” she promised, as she hurried to answer 
the telephone in the hall. 

Returning shortly, Geneve found Bobby ready to 
join the admiration party. Both girls looked at her 
questioningly. 

“It was Milt. I told him I was going to the Cotil¬ 
lion.” 

“Why,—but you aren’t dated, are you?” 

“No, I’m not, but I didn’t tell him I was, did I? 
I merely said I was going.” 

“Milt’s a peach. I think you missed something,” 
Bobby shook her head. 

“Well, I’m giving somebody else a swell evening, 
then, aren’t I?” retorted Geneve, as she paraded for 
them in a blue satin evening gown. “Ouch, look out, 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

you’re pulling my hair all out on this side,” she pro¬ 
tested as Joan, acting as maid, tried to help her out 
of it. “Let me slip it off. There, that’ll go on a hanger.” 
She handed the dress to Joan who amusedly put it 
away. 

“They wanted me to model a house dress, but I’m 
not the little bungalow type, so I got around it by 
selecting this linen redingote. Isn’t it tricky? It’s 
fitted as can be, and aren’t these big flares and the 
squashy pattern lovely? White shoes, or would you 
prefer red ones to match the dress?” 

“Geneve, it’s perfect!” Joan dropped to a seat on 
the couch. “It makes me think of Florida and the 
south.” 

“It’s only fifteen dollars. Why don’t you buy it after 
the show?” 

Joan smiled. “Lots of reasons. The girls would think 
I was borrowing your dress, for one. For another, and 
more important, I haven’t got fifteen dollars to spend 
on clothes.” 

Geneve glanced at Joan’s profile in the glass with a 
frown. Another girl would probably buy the dress just 
because she, Geneve, modeled it. Joan was very inde¬ 
pendent. 

“Well, I’ve got to be on my way,” Bobby said regret¬ 
fully as she got up. “Joan, I’ll do history with you if 
you like.” 

“Fine. Good luck with the Cotillion date, Geneve.” 


1 75 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“You know, Joan,” Bobby spoke thoughtfully as they 
went upstairs, “Methinks all is not well in Denmark. 
Geneve seems a little bit too much like the cat that 
has just finished swallowing the canary.” 

“Oh, don’t be silly, Bobby. Geneve’s all right even 
if she does seem rather conceited at times,” Joan de¬ 
fended. 

# # # 

The next few days passed with startling rapidity, and 
still Joan heard nothing from Don about the Cotil¬ 
lion. She had rather counted on his asking her. So 
much so that she had declined bids from two other 
boys. There didn’t seem to be any explanation for 
his failure to invite her except— Geneve confirmed 
Joan’s growing suspicion when she announced gaily, 
on the afternoon of the party, that Don had invited 
her. Joan bit her lip on hearing the news, and, man¬ 
aging to retain her poise until she left Roble, she 
tramped over the hills back of the campus until sun¬ 
set. The fresh air and the late afternoon sunshine 
gradually eased her bitter disappointment, and Joan 
re-entered the Hall determined not to let her own 
feelings dampen any of the gaiety. 

In a little more than two hours, the Sophomore’s big¬ 
gest party of the year would be in full swing, and the 
thrill of it had infected even those who had not been 
asked. 

“I’m a hooking-up-the-back marvel.” Joan proffered 

ij6 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

her services to Dixie who, still in her robe, was put¬ 
ting the finishing touches to her face. 

“You mean, a zipping-up-the-back marvel,” Dixie 
laughed. 

“Oh, that beautiful dress,” Joan sighed. “There’ll 
never be another one like it.” She had admired the 
dress ever since she had seen it taken from its wrap¬ 
pings, a week ago. A plain princess frock of stiff faille 
in light French blue with soft rose ribbon, drawn 
across the bodice and ending in a huge bow in the 
back, it made Dixie look like a Southern belle. After 
she had helped to adjust the folds of Dixie’s dress to 
her satisfaction, Joan went on to the rooms of her 
other friends. Yvonne seemed to need help with every¬ 
thing, from her soft little curls to the final arrange¬ 
ment of articles in her evening bag. Selma had to be 
bullied into taking time to dress herself properly in 
the white lace gown that had been woven years before 
by the nuns in a convent in Italy. 

“An American girl in an Italian dress makes a 
senorita,” Joan laughed, tucking a rose into Selma’s 
hair. “I’m glad it’s for Holb. He’ll really appreciate 
you. There’ll be none of this lost on him!” 

“Ready, yet, Bobby?” Joan stuck her head into a 
room turned topsy-turvy with Bobby standing, pow¬ 
dering her nose, in the middle of chaos. 

“Just a minute.” Bobby, in her excitement, dropped 
her puff and the puffy cart wheel landed—spat— 
against her dark velvet wrap. 


177 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Joan retreated, and rapped on Geneve’s open door. 
“Any service, Geneve? Oh, how grand!” Geneve, in a 
fuchsia taffeta embroidered in bands of silver wheat, 
seemed Paris personified. The fullness was so clev¬ 
erly draped in the back as to accentuate her slender¬ 
ness, and her hair was piled high on her head. Look¬ 
ing over at Joan coolly, she answered nonchalantly, 
“No thanks. All done.” 

“Gals, tell me, will I, or won’t I do? Sue says I 
won’t, and so does Betty, but I claim I will.” Sandra 
burst in upon the group and twirled around. “I had 
this sweater last spring, but the skirt’s new. I guar¬ 
antee it.” 

“I love it, Sandra. It suits you. Doesn’t it, gals?” 
They all approved, and Sandra relaxed on a convenient 
couch. In her long peach velvet skirt, topped by a 
knitted silver sweater, and a necklace of peach colored 
balls, she made a striking picture. 

“May we come in? We’re going the rounds seeing 
all the grand get-ups, and taking notes. Sort of a 
fashion show, you know. Just wait till our first formal! 
We’ll use all your trickiest ideas.” A group of the 
freshman stay-at-homes crowded in and settled down 
for a moment on chairs and floor. Then, as the clock 
chimed, a final flurry of excitement began in the halls. 

“Well—well, what—!” Dixie, glancing toward the 
door, stared, her mouth open. “Saxon,” everyone gasped. 

“Oh, girls, I’m so thrilled I don’t know whether to 
laugh or cry. And let me tell you—” Saxon, her eyes 

ij8 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

brilliant with excitement, stood in the center of the 
room, so busy explaining that she was totally oblivious 
of the admiring silence around her. 

“Well, Butch Wellman dated me. Me, think of 
it. And he’s so—so sophisticated and—goodness—! I 
rather suspect Bobby, but anyway, I’m going. Oh, it’s 
going to be wonderful. As soon as Bobby heard she 
insisted that I wear one of her new dresses. See?” She 
threw back her jacket to disclose a cream colored velvet 
that did justice to her shining braids and translucent 
skin. 

“I know where you got the coat,” one of the girls 
commented. “It’s Joan’s chubby. You’re a lucky gal. 
I’ve been wanting to crawl into that coat ever since I 
saw Joan at Chapel in it.” 

Joan laughed. “As soon as we started to work on 
Saxon, we decided to keep her a secret and surprise 
you all. Saxon thought it would be fun, too.” 

On her way downstairs, Geneve paused for a mo¬ 
ment at Dixie’s door. Her face betrayed her amazement 
at Saxon’s appearance. Then, with a hurried good¬ 
night, she went on. 

For a moment after Geneve left, the room was silent. 
Then as the bell called Yvonne, Dixie, and Saxon, the 
girls who remained behind looked at one another. 

“Really,” Joan broke the silence, “I can’t see that 
we have a thing to be downcast about. We’ve three 
more years in which to make the Cotillion, and, at the 
worst, a good night’s sleep won’t hurt us.” 

179 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“A good night’s sleep!” Peggy groaned. “I’ll bet 
Roble is full of frosh who can’t bear the thought of 
sleep any more than I can.” 

“Well,” Joan suggested sagely, “why don’t we all 
get together?” 

“Get together?” Peggy’s eyes brightened. “What an 
inspiration! Let’s have a party to celebrate!” 

“Celebrate? What can we celebrate?” another de¬ 
manded. 

“Spring, or New Year’s, or the Fourth of July, or 
the last football game or the coming one—anything 
we want to.” Peggy’s imagination was just starting 
to function at its usual speed. 

“Why not all at once?” Gwyn asked dryly. “After 
all, it’s only eight-thirty and—” 

“Gwyn, you’re a genius! That’s what we’ll do. We’ll 
celebrate everything all at once. We’ll roll everything 
we ever saw or heard of being done all into one and 
have a—a—a circus!” Peggy stopped, a little surprised 
herself at what she had proposed. “B’gosh, I’m a 
genius myself,” she proclaimed, attempting to pat her¬ 
self on the back. The group gave way to unrestrained 
laughter at her last remark, and the atmosphere took 
on a decidedly more cheerful tone. 

“I’ll see if we can get permission to use the Club,” 
Joan offered. 

“And I’ll be publicity expert,” Gwyn offered. 

Peggy stared at her intently, then shook her head. 
“No,” she decided, “you won’t do. You look too 

180 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

honest,” she explained. “You’d tell the girls it’s going 
to be a grand show and lots of fun, instead of point¬ 
ing it out as the most spectacular, the most colossal, 
gigantic, stupendous, collection of man and beast ever 
to be witnessed by the human eye!” She paused for 
breath. “You take over the costume end,” she sug¬ 
gested, “and who’ll look after the refreshments ?’’ 

“I will,” Gwyn volunteered again. “Let’s charge five 
cookies admission. That’s the only way we can get 
enough supplies without going bankrupt ourselves.” 

“Grand!” Joan announced, as she left on her mis¬ 
sion. “The show will start in exactly,” she consulted 
her watch, “an hour in the Club, I hope.” 

The next twenty minutes were probably the most 
hectic that Roble had ever seen. Joan finally found Mrs. 
Willis, the Director of the Hall and obtained her 
amused consent to the use of the lounge in the base¬ 
ment of B Wing. Peggy, meanwhile, persuaded the 
switchboard operator to ring every buzzer in Roble 
in rapid succession and to announce the festivities over 
the telephone. Crepe paper, ribbons, toy stuffed dogs, 
cats and rabbits, sheets, and even a few balloons were 
collected from various rooms. The rule was that 

i 

everyone appear in costume, preferably as a circus 
animal or entertainer, and the girls’ efforts to comply 
taxed the utmost resources of Roble. 

Just before the show was scheduled to begin, Joan 
surveyed the preparations with a satisfied grin. Sheets, 
hung over ropes, divided a space into sideshows, with 

181 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

chairs in front of them for the barkers. Circles, drawn 
on the floor with chalk, marked the three rings of the 
circus proper, and the tables were arranged in a row 
to restrain the wild animals held captive by crepe paper 
bars. 

A subdued hubbub sounded from the halls above, 
and chattering and giggling accompanied the swishing 
of strange garments. In a moment, the crowd was 
upon them. Peggy assumed her professional air as 
the outstanding spieler and, standing on a chair, she 
guided the spectators through draped sheets into the 
“tent.” 

“Lad-ees and gentlemen! Lad-ees and gentlemen! 
Step right this way for the greatest show on earth. 
Come see the Itchy-scratchy, that strange prehistoric 
monster, and the Russian Siamese Twins, Iearnski and 
Youspendski. Learn who you are going to date next 
Saturday night from Madame Turtleneck, the Egyp¬ 
tian seer. Here you are! Don’t crowd folks! Take 
your time.” 

Joan and Gwyn, just inside the curtains, were con¬ 
vulsed with laughter at the strange creatures pass¬ 
ing. 

“It’s a marvel to me,” Joan gasped, “how Peggy can 
keep such a straight face. You’d think she were ten 
thousand miles away. Look at that Phi Beta Kappa 
with the glasses and the monkey’s tail, and Harriet 
Everts as the man on the flying trapeze!” 

“Isn’t Virgie Sommers darling, though, as a bare- 

182 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

back rider? Why she isn’t at the Prom is a mystery 
to me.” 

“Yes, she’s cute, but I like her companion better as 
the horse.” 

“Well, gals,” Peggy, having performed her first 
social duty, was heading for the lemonade stand, 
“here’s to you all. And when do the hot dogs do their 
act?” 

“Hey, Peggy, you keep away from there. You 
would go and eat all the decorations.” Bams pulled 
her back just as she was reaching for a string of frank¬ 
furters festooned around the top of the lemonade stand. 

“All right, starve me if you will. If I faint some¬ 
where around here from hunger, you’ll be sorry.” 

“We’ll take a chance on that. Come on, let’s get 
this bunch sorted out.” Joan propelled her toward the 
invited guests. 

Soon they had ensconced the fat lady in a section 
of a sideshow with a sword swallower next to her. 
Then came a snake charmer, and then the man with 
two heads (the second from a hastily decapitated 
French doll). A palmist and seer completed the at¬ 
tractions. Opposite these freaks, a bear, a tiger, a 
monkey, and an ostrich took their places between the 
tables. The remaining guests, as trainers and perform¬ 
ers, gathered in the center of the room. They were to 
be entertained by the sideshows first, and how each 
barker did attempt to inveigle the audience into her 
concession! And it was only after each performer had 

183 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

done her bit that she was allowed to join the rest of 
the crowd waiting to hear their futures from Madame 
Turtleneck, the infallible seeress. 

Then the fun began in the rings. Marie Dupont, 
dressed in a pink gauze petticoat, laid a rope across 
the floor and pretended that it was a “high wire.” First, 
she balanced herself at one end, carefully holding a 
parasol high above her head as an aid to keeping her 
equilibrium; then, stepping out cautiously, she slid 
along with feet at right angles. Becoming bolder and 
bolder, she danced gaily on the rope, changing her 
direction, and still keeping her balance so well that 
the girls applauded enthusiastically. 

The next act was the wild animal one. Gwyn, who 
had been transformed into a bold trainer with the aid 
of a short pleated skirt, and the coat and cap of a cast-off 
band uniform, fearlessly put her charges through 
tricks that brought gasps of admiration from the au¬ 
dience. And next came the chariot races. Part of the 
time the horses pulled the drivers off their feet, but 
the finish found the drivers pushing the giggling 
horses. 

But all the previous applause combined, could not 
equal the determined cheering that broke forth at the 
appearance of “gen-u-ine pink lemonade.” The girls 
had just settled themselves about the floor for a brief 
rest between acts, when a light was turned on in a 
little box theatre set high on skirted stilts at one end 
of the room. A little papier-mache figure appeared 

184 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

and, bowing, announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, may 
I present to you the characters of a series of one act 
plays which are to be given in this theatre tonight. 
First, Timothy Treadmill. Timothy, will you step 
forward?” 

At this word of encouragement, a long, gangling 
figure appeared beside the speaker, big twisted wire 
glasses perched on his long, red nose, his face sallow 
under a shock of surprised-looking yellow hair. Under 
his arms were tucked a load of miniature blue books 
and heavy tomes. 

“Timothy is our honor student. He studies all day, 
and he solves problems in his sleep. His greatest friends 
are the book worms and his pet activity is taking 
exams. 

“Next is Cleopatra, the college vamp. She needs no 
word from me. She speaks for herself. 

“And now, you see Sidney the smoothie. Note his 
lovely white slacks, the tie matching his shirt, and the 
smart blue coat. And, girls, what eyes! When he 
hands you a line, you swallow it hook and sinker, and 
what’s more, he makes you like it. 

“This little man is Bertie, the Bolshevik. He signs 
all kinds of little pledges that he doesn’t understand 
and feels very consequential. Later, when he makes 
his mark in college, he’ll forget all about them, which 
is just as well. 

“Then, here’s Alice, the all-around girl. She studies, 
she plays games, she participates in outside activities, 

J *5 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

and she’s dated a month ahead. She’s the real queen of 
the Campus. Let’s give her a hand.” 

After the applause had died down, a puppet in a 
sweater with a block “S” appeared. “And here’s her 
partner, Maxwell, the all-around college man. Let’s 
give him a cheer!” 

When the noise had subsided, the little announcer 
went on, “Last and equally important, we have 
Pushem, the Professor. He educates us whether we 
will or no. He even graduates us. He’s our best 
friend here in college. Nine rahs for the professor!” 

The footlights were turned out and Joan, under the 
rustle of noise which ensued, sank back and sighed. 
“Oh, goodness but it’s hot in here,” she whispered as 
Peggy came to take her place. In a moment the light 
was on again, and the little announcer was speaking 
in quite a different voice. 

“Lad-ees and freaks,” he addressed the audience, 
“I promised you a series of one-act plays. But may I 
further enlighten you? You are to compose and pro¬ 
duce these plays. Please form into groups of three as 
soon as the lights are turned on, and write a college 
play to your taste using any or all of the characters 
which I have just introduced to you. Paper and pencils 
will be passed out. In twenty minutes your play must 
be completed. In the meantime, to spur on your 
fevered intellects, popcorn and peanuts will be passed 
out. A prize will be awarded to the group which pro¬ 
duces the most successful play.” 


186 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

The room was filled with activity as the girls formed 
their groups and whispered conferences began. “Oh 
dear, I just can’t,” one voice protested. “Not in twenty 
minutes!” A tragic moan went up now and then, but 
for the most part, plans took shape swiftly. Not only 
was the prize at stake, but what fun it was going to 
be to play with the puppets! Many had never tried 
to work them before. 

At the end of the allotted time, the light glowed 
again on the diminutive stage, and the first group was 
selected. Never was an audience more appreciative. 
They booed the college vampire when she appeared 
to be turning the head of the campus hero. They ap¬ 
plauded when Carrie, the college cut-up, put hay under 
the vamp’s pillow at night and gave her hay fever so 
it was impossible for her to go to the Junior Prom 
and Alice, the all-around girl, got asked instead. They 
cheered when the wig fell off Bertie, the Bolshevik, 
and he continued to argue, blissfully unaware of the 
cavity showing in the top of his cranium. 

After the prize, a big chocolate cake was awarded, 
the hot dogs were consumed, and at one o’clock the 
party was over. 

When some of the girls, returning from the Co¬ 
tillion, tried to tell the stay-at-homes all about the 
gorgeous evening they had had, they found the latter 
much too tired, and happy, and sleepy to be very in¬ 
terested. 

Bobby, on the way to her room, discovered a light 

i8j 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

shining through the crack of Joan’s door. Pausing, she 
peered in. 

“Sssst—Joan!” 

Joan turned from where she lay across the bed look¬ 
ing out into the star-lit darkness. At the sight of 
Bobby, she signalled for silence. The two doors on 
either side were closed. 

“I won’t wake them,” Bobby hissed. “Joan, it was 
wonderful. They carried out the decorations and color 
scheme to resemble a Viennese Ballroom of long ago, 
and the orchestra—well, I’m a wreck! I danced myself 
to death. But I could do it all over again tomorrow. 
Someone spilt punch all over my new dress.” At the 
sight of Joan’s face, with distinct traces of tears on 
it, she stopped. 

“Joan, why didn’t you go?” she blurted out impul¬ 
sively. 

“I wasn’t invited, Bobby.” 

“Weren’t invited ? Why, I was under the impression 
that Don took Geneve because you two had had some 
sort of disagreement.” 

“No, we’re the best of friends,” Joan spoke slowly. 
“I don’t think I ever did turn down a date with Don. 
We’ve been working together quite a lot and I rather 
expected to go to the Cotillion with him. It would 
have been like old times.” She paused a moment and 
continued, “I guess it really isn’t his fault, though. If 
Geneve really sets her mind on being charming, I 
doubt if any man on the Campus could resist her.” 


188 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Well, you’re the last!” Bobby put in angrily. “She’s 
dated all of our boy friends, one after the other, just 
to prove she could do it. And then she added insult 
to injury by parading the fact at every opportunity! 
We really ought to squelch her, once and for all.” 

“No, Bobby,” Joan reflected, “let her alone. If she 
continues as she’s started out, she’ll find herself in 
trouble enough without anyone’s help. Cutting classes, 
barely passing her exams, and snubbing the rest of 
the girls—one just can’t be a law unto herself around 
here. It won’t work. All of our plans and work are 
too intermingled,” she concluded. “Now, good night, 
and thanks a million for dropping in,” Joan closed 
her eyes. “And switch off the light, please.” 

“ ’Night,” Bobby turned off the light, but as she 
closed the door softly behind her, she heard a muffled 
sob. Joan was not as much of a philosopher as she 
pretended. 


i8g 



Chapter Eight 


I f I sat here ’till midnight, I couldn’t learn a thing 
more.” Joan snapped her notebook shut and 
yawned prodigiously. 

“That’s probably because you know all you need to. 
French is a pet of yours.” Selma started to gather 
her syllabus together. “I feel the same way about art, 
but this old course is so full of dates and things!” 

“Verbs!” Saxon exclaimed. “They’re what take the 
joy out of life.” 

“Mine too,” Yvonne admitted. “I wonder why some 
professor doesn’t figure out a method of teaching Span¬ 
ish that would just eliminate verbs entirely.” 

“Leave out verbs, and what have you left?” Joan 
inquired. 

190 


















JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Peace of mind,” Selma retorted promptly. 

“Have any of you any idea how Roman civilization 
was affected by its heritage, from the civilizations of 
the ancient east and Greece up to the time of Con¬ 
stantine?” Bobby’s weary question came from the 
couch where she was surrounded, and half buried, 
by papers and books. 

“Ideas, yes. But we’re sort of weak on facts,” Saxon 
admitted cheerfully. 

“You’re a big help,” Bobby groaned. “Either I get 
the Romans untangled pretty soon or the ‘Bawl-Out’ 
really is going to wreck my reputation! I don’t see 
how that darned booklet can hide under the innocent 
title of Directory of Officers and Students.” 

“Say, Joan, now that you’re the Secretary-Treas¬ 
urer of the Freshman Class, how about starting a 
campaign to grade all the professors in the ‘Bawl-Out’ 
too? And could the freshmen have a lot of fun doing 
that!” Selma sighed blissfully just contemplating the 
idea. 

“I don’t know,” Saxon disagreed. “I personally 
think those professors deserve something approaching 
medals. Even if I do want to be a teacher, I still don’t 
think I’d ever relish the idea of having four or five 
hundred freshmen descending on me every year de¬ 
manding that they be taught French or any other sub¬ 
ject painlessly.” 

“I rise to a point of order,” Bobby objected. “Here 
I sit—” 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“You’re not sitting, you’re lying down,” Selma 
pointed out. 

“Hush! Here I am, vainly striving to attain a more 
comprehensive picture of the Roman Empire and 
Saxon insinuates that it’s painless!” Bobby looked 
around appealingly for sympathy. 

“How about calling it quits for tonight?” Joan pro¬ 
posed. “We’re not going to accomplish anything more 
at this rate, and we’d do better to get a fresh start to¬ 
morrow.” 

“Now, with that I can readily agree,” Bobby nodded 
vigorously, “especially the tomorrow part.” 

“Oh, Joan,” Saxon looked up, “You promised to 
show me the plans of that house you’re always talking 
about.” 

“Haven’t I ever shown those to you ? I suppose that’s 
because you’re over at the gym all the time, or on the 
hockey field. Talk about passions. I never saw any 
one as crazy about athletics.” 

“Or about dish washing and baby tending. I wish 
you could see my bank balance. If this keeps up, I’ll 
be a millionairess, wearing diamonds and fur coats. I 
honestly believe the professors’ wives manufacture jobs 
out of thin air for me. I wish I could repay them 
somehow.” 

“You are, Saxon, because you study awfully hard. 
That’s why they’re so interested in you.” 

“Let’s go out on the sun deck, gals,” Selma sug¬ 
gested as they rose. “It must be grand and cool 


792 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

out there and I’d like to give my brain a little airing.” 

“If you’ll wait, Saxon, I’ll get the plans and spread 
them out on this table. They’re all in order because 
I’m giving them back to Don tomorrow to hand in 
for mid-semester lab. Then, we can go outside and 
look at the moon.” 

In a few minutes the two were poring over the 
plans and sketches, admiring Don’s ingenuity and 
skill, Betty’s and Selma’s knowledge of beauty and 
craftsmanship and Joan’s practicality. 

“I love them, Joan,” Saxon was enthusiastic. “Per¬ 
haps I love them as much as I do because I have known 
people who would appreciate them most of all. They 
are poor people in small towns who love nice things 
but who never have much hope of living anywhere 
but in bare, plain, little houses. But with plans like 
these, and with the costs way down, they can walk 
into a little dream home completely furnished. And 
the best part is that they can pay for all of it with their 
rent money. The mothers will have pretty little 
kitchens to work in, and a lawn for the children to 
play on. And, when the man of the house comes 
home, he can putter around in the garden and actually 
have something to show for his time.” 

Joan laughed at Saxon’s enthusiastic praise, but she 
was touched. She knew that Saxon was sincere. 

After taking the precious sketches and data back to 
her room, Joan joined Saxon again, and the two went 
out through the French doors to the deck. They 


i93 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

drew mats toward the rest of the group and stretched 
out, indulging in a moment of quiet while they drank 
in the cool night air. 


# * # 

As the days went on, Joan’s preoccupation with her 
own problems did not keep her from worrying about 
Yvonne, who was in several of her classes. During 
round table discussions, Yvonne appeared frankly be¬ 
wildered. Often, too, in the midst of studying, she 
would burst into tears. And yet, from chatting with 
her, Joan judged her to be as bright as the majority 
of her fellow students. Brighter than Babs, for in¬ 
stance, who, in spite of her frivolous chatter, had 
stood up well in the quizzes which the girls had given 
each other using the examination papers of past quar¬ 
ters. 

Joan’s background had been too different from 
Yvonne’s for her to realize the truth. Yvonne’s high 
school had been a small one, which was run on 
a very personal basis. Old Professor Dunton had taken 
pride in seeing that all of the students in his classes 
were graduated. Those who had difficulty with geom¬ 
etry were questioned, helped, and pushed over the hard 
places. At Stanford, progress was based solely on the 
student’s merits. And, under this system, Yvonne 
seemed totally unable to progress at all. The syllabus 
with its abbreviations meant nothing intelligible to 
her, the Spanish grammar, written in Spanish, took all 




JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

of her time to translate before she could even start 
to study from it. She was days behind in her art lab, 
and the hours flew on. 

Joan, herself, was beginning to get a bad case of 
“the jitters” at the mere thought of the impending 
tests. Later, perhaps, when the professors and the 
routine of examinations should become more familiar 
to her, she might take them in her stride, but right 
now one chill thought was uppermost in her mind— 
the fact that a professor often dropped a number of 
the students who had the lowest grades in his class! 

Finally came the evening before the first examina¬ 
tion. Joan, with her friends, reviewed the subject until 
ten o’clock, and then the group decided that rest was 
in order. Once in bed, Joan slept dreamlessly until 
she awakened much later to hear the chimes mark the 
quarter-hour. Yvonne’s light was on. Joan slid out 
of bed and into Yvonne’s room to discover her huddled 
over the table with her head propped in her hands. 

She looked up and sighed. “It’s no use, Joan. I—I 
just can’t learn anything. I keep saying things over 
in my head and they don’t mean a thing. When I 
look over the chapter headings, it seems as if I’d 
really never seen them before.” 

Joan glanced at the desk clock, and then put her 
arm around Yvonne. “It’s almost four. Do you mean 
to tell me you’ve been up all this time ? Of course, you 
can’t remember anything. You’re much too tired. 


z 95 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Come now, go to bed. It’ll all come back to you in 
the morning. You’ll see.” 

At six Yvonne was up again. All through her prepa¬ 
rations for class, a hasty breakfast and her trip to Quad, 
she kept murmuring, “Assyrians lived on the Tigris. 
Sumerians—where did they live? Babylon. No. Yes. 
Arameans. Arameans were from Damascus.” 

Outside the lecture hall, a group of tired, sleepy- 
eyed freshmen stood in the chill of the early morning, 
waiting for the hour to strike. Inside, a few minutes 
later, they took alternate seats, wrote their names and 
the name of the course on the Blue Book covers and 
reached for the printed question slips. Joan, glancing 
over her questions indicated an answer in the margin 
after each one. The ink sank into the spongy paper. 
Number One was easy, and Number Two was fairly 
so. The third question, Joan finally gave up as impos¬ 
sible, and passed on to the fourth which was compara¬ 
tively easy. Number Five, which had interminable 
sub-questions, brought with it the possibility of partial 
credit. Anyway, one couldn’t miss all of it. Five ques¬ 
tions. That was twenty percent on each. If Joan had 
missed Number Three, she would still have a mark of 
eighty. Mustn’t take a chance, though. Must try to 
answer all of them. A glance at Yvonne’s intent little 
face did not tell her whether her friend was finding 
the questions difficult or easy. 

One of the first to finish, Joan breathed a sigh of 
relief as she handed in her book. Strolling along the 

196 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

inner Quad in the sunlight, enjoying this moment of 
relaxation before thinking ahead to the afternoon, she 
paced out the diamonds in the pavement, a habit when 
she was tired or thoughtful. Finally, her foot touched 
the first of the brass memorial plates. Each class from 
the beginning had laid one containing its numerals, 
and these plates replaced the original flags of cement. 
In time they would run, point to point, entirely around 
the arcade. Classes of 98, ’99, ’00, ’01, ’02, ’03. What 
was life like then? Gas light? And were there tele¬ 
phones? Horses and buggies, of course. Classes of ’04, 
’05, 06. That was the time of pompadours and swish¬ 
ing skirts, of bicycles, of the earthquake and Stanford’s 
partial destruction, of two-steps and waltzes. Classes 
of ’07, ’08, ’09, ’10, Merry Widows, peg-top trousers, 
and real rah-rah boys. She knew a lot about that era. 
Joan’s mother had gone to Stanford then and liked to 
reminisce about it. Classes of ’n, ’12, ’13. These years 
meant automobiles, ragtime, hobble skirts, votes for 
women. The ideas ticked off more rapidly now. 
Classes of ’14, ’15, ’16, far-off rumblings of the War, 
saucy little styles that imitated soldiers’ garb, and the 
Panama Pacific Exposition with its Tower of Jewels 
and End of the Trail. Classes of ’17, ’18, ’19, War! The 
breaking up of everything. Goodbyes, rolling bandages, 
writing letters, Camp Fremont right next door, and 
the flu. Classes of ’20, ’21, ’22 brought memories of 
flappers in knee-length tweeds, bobbed hair, jazz. 
Classes of ’23, ’24, ’25 meant the Charleston, everyone 


197 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

gay and mad. Those of ’26, ’27, ’28 conjured up pic¬ 
tures of bigger and better allowances, grander parties, 
more whoopee. And ’29, ’30, ’31, meant down to 
earth again. Down to earth through Joan’s growing 
up, through years of uncertainty, of change, of fear. 
The past was apparently worth the wistful backward 
look of her elders, but what did the future hold? 

“Contemplating your sins or Caesar’s?” 

“Oh, hello, Del. I didn’t see you. How’s the avi¬ 
ator?” 

“Well, so far the birds have a slight edge on me,” 
Del grinned, “but then most of them started before I 
did. You know, the best people just don’t go walking 
along sort of mumbling to themselves!” 

“I was just thinking—” 

“It’s much too early,” Del protested, “besides I just 
finished an exam too. Tell you what, let’s go have a 
coke and sit quietly in a nice corner and contemplate 
life.” 

The Cellar was far from being quiet, but the cheer¬ 
ful hum of conversation made both of them feel that, 
even with exams, life was still worth living. 

One after another, the examinations continued to 
loom up like high walls to be hurdled. Before each 
one, Yvonne seemed more bewildered than ever. After 
it, she felt more hopeless. It was not until the follow¬ 
ing week when Blue Books were returned that Joan 
drew a free breath. Yvonne had scrambled through 

198 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

everything with a passing grade, and she, herself, had 
made a really impressive record. 

# # # 

For a long time, as Joan studied French by her win¬ 
dow, she was conscious of the intermittent droning of 
an automobile horn outside. At first, it was only a 
wraith of a sound, but, as the minutes wore on, it in¬ 
creased and struggled in her mind for supremacy with 
her French verbs. Finally it took possession of her 
brain completely. 

“Ooooooo-a-eeee! Oooooo-a-eeee!” 

It moaned sadly, shrieked for a second, and then 
ended with a cough. Joan flung the French book on 
the couch and turned irritably to look out of the win¬ 
dow. Why anyone, who knew people must be study¬ 
ing, would keep up a din like that! She gasped and 
stared harder. Below her, on the drive, a sad little 
Model T touring car stood patiently. It was a rusty 
little wreck of a Ford, doing its best to be brave and 
debonair under a new coat of paint and a thorough 
polishing. In it sat Del. His blue coat and white flan¬ 
nels indicated a special occasion, and his face was shin¬ 
ing with pride and happiness. Fie beckoned her to 
come down. 

“But Del,” she gasped, as a few seconds later she 
crawled in over the tightly jammed door, “where on 
earth did you get this? It isn’t yours, is it?” 

Fie nodded. 


799 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Actually? But you told me that you were having 
a hard time to make ends meet until this quarter was 
over. Whence this sudden affluence?” 

“Well, I was in rather a tight hole,” he admitted 
ruefully. “It was thoughtless of the lady I was doing 
odd jobs for to close up her house and go off to Europe 
just in the middle of a quarter. The least she might 
have done was to recommend me as a chore boy to 
some of her friends. But it’s all right now. Virtue has 
its own reward!” He sank back luxuriously on the 
sagging cushions of the car. 

“Well, it’s a mystery to me,” Joan declared, “but if 
it’s all right with you, I don’t care. Drive on.” 

“Seriously, though, Joan,” Del began again, after 
he had started the car, and they were on their way 
to the lake, “I’ve got a perfect job. I’m athletic in¬ 
structor to a group of kids in Menlo Park, and it’s 
going to last a year or more, until they enter a mili¬ 
tary school near Los Gatos. They’re just little tykes 
now. I figured that this Ford, at twenty dollars, would 
cost less in the end than bus fare.” 

Joan turned to him impulsively. “Del, I think 
you’re grand! Butch told me all about you the other 
day. And about how you’re determined to earn your 
way through college even though you don’t have to.” 

“I wish Butch would keep his mouth shut.” Del red¬ 
dened with embarrassment. “Anyway, that isn’t just 
how it is. I do have to in a way. Dad lost out rather 
badly these last few years, and his business still isn’t 


200 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

what it should be. He and mother are able to get 
along comfortably with just themselves to consider. 
But, with me to account for, it would be pretty hard 
sledding. The poor dears are more than willing to 
make sacrifices for me, but shucks, who wants to be 
sacrificed for? Every quarter, dad writes a check to 
cover my expenses and I bank it here, in case I get 
in a tight spot. Once or twice, I’ve had to draw on it, 
but I’ve always paid it back. When I go home at the 
end of the quarter, I take the money with me and 
hand it to dad.” He turned to her challengingly. 
“That’s not ‘grand,’ that’s just—right.” 

Joan nodded. 

“Young woman, I assume that you know what day 
this is?” 

“Well, I know what night it’s going to be.” 

“Remarkable! Even without Mr. Hugh Whitney for 
a brother, I’ll bet Roble would have educated you 
properly. You and the rest have probably been whoop¬ 
ing it up at dinner for weeks.” 

“I should say we have. I know every football song 
and lots of yells. And if you thought that I might by 
any chance miss the rally tonight, you’re most mis¬ 
taken. I feel almost a proprietary interest in that bon¬ 
fire the frosh built today because we furnished food 
and moral support as they labored. A crowd of us 
are going to the rally tonight. We’ve got a float to 
enter you know.” 

“You can join them later if you’re a good girl, but 


201 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

you’re going to the rally with me. From now on 
until rally time, you’re kidnapped!” 

“I’m starved, Del. Does my captor intend to pro¬ 
vide meals?” 

At Del’s suggestion they ate chop suey in Palo Alto. 
The red and white checked cloths on the tables, and 
great orange lanterns ballooning over the lights were 
a welcome change from the more formal atmosphere 
of Stanford. 

After the chop suey came chocolate eclairs and small 
black coffees, and then, Del, with a look of blank 
astonishment gasped, “Why, we’ve a car! Tie that! 
For sixty whole minutes, I’d forgotten it. Come on, 
let’s hurry out and see if it’s still there.” 

By seven o’clock they were back on the Campus try¬ 
ing to get somewhere near the Fiji house where the 
rally parade was scheduled to start, but with very little 
success. Mayfield Avenue and Lasuen Street were 
packed with cars, floats, and students afoot. Joan de¬ 
cided to stay with Del and the car, at least until they 
reached the Pavilion, for the odds against finding her 
group in the crowd seemed too great. Fifteen minutes 
later, headed by hundreds of students carrying torches 
and the Stanford band, more than fifty floats of every 
possible variety moved forward down the Row. They 
were followed by cars loaded with passengers, and 
then came crowds of students on foot. At the Pavilion, 
early arrivals from Palo Alto got up from their seats 
as the band, with blaring trumpets, set the pace for 


202 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

the events to follow. With more enthusiasm than har¬ 
mony, four thousand rooters sang as they poured into 
the building. 

Standing on the balcony, Joan searched the crowd for 
the faces of her friends. There they were, in front 
seats, but the building was so crowded that she had 
little chance of joining them. 

“Here comes Hugh!” Joan bubbled as the Varsity 
men filed in. 

With the arrival of the football squad, the rally was 
really under way. Speeches began with cheers, were 
interspersed with cheers, were interrupted by cheers, 
and were ended with them. And then the vibrant emo¬ 
tion of the evening found its outlet in song. Speeches 
by the President, two of the trustees, the past coach, 
the present one, and Hugh, all were accompanied by 
evidences of the wildest enthusiasm. The climax was 
the deafening roar of the Axe Yell, and a shower of 
confetti and serpentine. On the way out, Del touched 
Joan’s arm. 

“You haven’t escaped yet, lady. You’re still my 
captive. Let’s find a place near the bonfire.” 

Seventy-five feet high, constructed of every discarded 
piece of wood that could be collected from the sur¬ 
rounding countryside, the huge pyre was soaked with 
five hundred gallons of oil. 

Already, students were serpentining around it as it 
towered, still dark at the top, but reddening with a 
flicker of flames at its core. Quickly the flames spread 


205 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

up the sides of the heap till at last they flared upward 
more than two hundred feet, lighting the sea of up¬ 
turned faces and sending a huge cloud of oily black 
smoke into the sky. A second serpentine organized 
and wound around the blaze, preceded by the band. 
Then, as the huge bonfire burned itself out, Hail, Stan¬ 
ford, Hail rang through the night followed by a stac¬ 
cato “Varsity.” As the rally ended, the students and 
spectators joined forces. Seven thousand strong, the 
Axe Yell hurled out the Cardinal defiance; first slowly 
and softly, and then in an ear-splitting roar: 

Give ’Em—The Axe — 

The Axe—The Axe — 

Give ’Em—The Axe 
The Axe—The Axe — 

Give ’Em The Axe 
Give ’Em The Axe 

Give ’Em The Axe - Where ?— 

Right — In The Neck — 

The Neck—The Neck 
Right—In The Neck — 

The Neck—The Neck — 

Right In The Neck- 
Right In The Neck — 

Right In The Neck - There! 

A few minutes later, Joan and Del wandered over 
to the little car and crawled in. For a moment Del sat 
fingering the key before turning on the ignition. He 


204 




JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

seemed to be thinking intently, and then he turned 
to Joan with the air of one who has made a momentous 
decision. 

“I’ve been seeing a lot of Hugh up at the Phi House 
these days, Joan, and I’ve been wanting to speak to 
you about Hugh. I think I ought to tell you about 
the situation in case there’s a tail-spin.” 

“A— Why Del, what do you mean?” Del’s evi¬ 
dent hesitancy frightened her as much as his words. 
“What are you trying to say?” 

Del laughed grimly. “I’m trying to say that Hugh 
is carrying the stiffest course he’s ever attempted, and 
yet he’s still working at that job in Palo Alto. The 
last two fellows who tried that flunked out. I’m not 
saying Hugh isn’t bright enough to swing both, but 
it’s a teriffic strain, Joan. It’s telling on him.” 

“Why, Del, I never dreamed—! So that explains it. 
Why I haven’t seen so much of him lately, and why he 
seems so nervous and tired-looking. I’ve mentioned it 
several times to him and he’s always brushed it off. 
Del, can’t he be made to stop ? Can’t the House Presi¬ 
dent do something? And I’ll try, too.” 

“The House President tried. That’s why I thought 
I’d speak to you. There’s nothing more any of us 
can do.” 

“I’ll call him right away. I won’t mention our talk, 
and thanks, Del. You were grand to tell me.” 

“I wouldn’t mention it till after the Game tomor¬ 
row,” Del advised, “he’s probably on edge right now. 


20 5 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Wait till after tomorrow when things have quieted 
down a bit. And now, just a turn around San Juan 
Hill and back you go to Roble.” 

The car sputtered up the incline and started around 
Faculty Hill under the flooding moonlight. Suddenly, 
at a turn, it slackened speed, coughed and was mo¬ 
tionless. It coughed again, and then relaxed into 
complete inertia. The two occupants stared off into 
space for a moment and then looked at each other. 

“And now what?” Joan inquired. 

“I fear the worst,” Del whispered. He climbed out 
cautiously and went around to the front as if he sud¬ 
denly mistrusted the car and wanted to be tactful in 
his dealings with her. 

“It is—it is true,” he murmured a moment later, 
leaning over the open hood. “She has heart failure, 
lung trouble, leakage of the valves, and a stubborn 
disposition. I shall punish her by leaving her out in 
the cold all night.” 

“Oh, Del, you can’t do that!” 

“Why not? I’ll be hanged if I’ll pick her up and 
carry her to a garage, and her ‘innards’ would defy 
even the engineering department in this dark. Come 
on. Gather all your pioneering spirit together for 
we’re going to have to walk back!” 


206 



Chapter Nine 


T he atmosphere of the Farm, usually quiet and 
serene, crackled with suppressed excitement. It 
was Big Game Day! Since early morning visitors 
had poured onto the campus in a deluge that increased 
as the hours passed. El Camino Real, the highway 
from San Francisco, was jammed with cars coming 
southward three and four abreast. Special Big Game 
trains were steadily disgorging thousands of loyal root¬ 
ers for the California Bear into Palo Alto’s little sta¬ 
tion. The Cardinal Red and the Blue and Gold of 
the University of California crossed and mingled. Old 
grads of both universities again regaled each other 
with tales of “the good old days,” and renewed old 
friendships. Lunch rooms and soda fountains were 


20J 








JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

crowded beyond capacity. Harassed traffic officers at¬ 
tempted to give directions to strangers and untangle 
traffic snarls at the same time. Happy and carefree, 
the holiday throng descended, some eighty thousand 
strong, to root for their respective favorites. The big¬ 
gest day in Stanford’s year was off to a flying start. 

It was almost noon before Joan, anxiously watch¬ 
ing from her window, saw Mr. Bishop’s big car swing 
into the street leading to Roble. 

With a whoop she dashed from her room, and then 
stopped short. “A Stanford woman just doesn’t run 
through crowded lobbies,” she admonished herself. 
“But she may walk fast,” she added, as she reached 
the lobby filled with the parents and friends of the 
girls who lived at Roble. 

“Oh, Joan, just a minute,” Bobby caught Joan’s 
arm as she passed. “I want you to meet my mother. 
She’s just arrived.” 

Joan turned and stopped. Beside Bobby stood a slen¬ 
der white haired woman in a soft brown dress. She 
looked very modern, yet still had a motherly air 
about her. 

“Mother, this is Joan Whitney, the girl I’ve been 
telling you about.” 

“Yes,” Mrs. Wellman smiled at Joan, “in fact her 
letters generally contain more about you than about 
herself.” 

“That’s just because it’s easier to make someone else’s 
adventures more dramatic than one’s own,” Joan ex- 


208 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

plained. “My mother registers almost the same com¬ 
plaint. Really, I should write to you about Bobby’s 
career and let her correspond with my mother. But 
Mom and Dad are just coming up the driveway now, 
and I do want to meet them, so, if you’ll excuse me 
for a few minutes?” 

“Certainly, my dear. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know 
you were in a hurry. Run along, and we’ll probably 
see you later.” 

Four introductions and two minutes later, Joan, her 
resolution to be dignified forgotten, ran down the 
walk and threw her arms around her mother. 

“Oh, Mom! I’m so glad to see you. I thought 
you’d never get here. I’ve been worrying all morning 
for fear something might keep you away.” 

“And dad—” 

“Wait a moment, don’t strangle me,” Mr. Whitney 
begged laughingly. “Is this the way you greet all of 
your visitors?” 

“Not all. Only extra-special ones on extra-special 
occasions. Gosh, I’ve got a million things I want to 
tell you. Isn’t it grand here? Has anything exciting 
happened since I left Fresno? What made you so 
late?” 

“Hold on, Joan, one at a time,” Mr. Whitney pleaded. 
“Where’s Hugh?” 

“He came over this morning to wait for you here, 
but I was so restless he claimed I was giving him the 
jitters too. He finally took refuge in his fraternity 


209 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

house, and he asked me to call him the moment you 
arrived. They’re holding open house all along the 
Row today and he wants to parade you around up 
there. Then we’ll still have time for a quick tour of 
the campus before game time. But first, you have Roble 
Hall to see, and there are ever so many people inside 
you just must meet. That is, if you don’t mind?” 

“Of course not, dear. On the contrary, we’re more 
than happy to have the opportunity of meeting your 
friends. But, we must go up to see Hugh before it 
gets too late.” 

“Oh, where’s Mr. Bishop?” Joan demanded. “I 
was certain he was with you.” 

“Yes, he came with us. But he’s gone over to En- 
cina to see Don,” Joan’s mother explained. “He was 
as anxious to see him as we were to see you. We’ll 
meet them both later.” 

“Of course, how selfish of me,” Joan reproached her¬ 
self, “but do hurry,” she added, “I’ll ’phone Hugh that 
you’re here and we’ll just have time to do everything 
before the game.” 


# # # 

Two hours later the Whitneys arrived at the stadium 
a little out of breath but in high spirits. After she had 
seen that her parents were headed toward their seats, 
Joan ran to join her own group which was assembling 
outside the gate to the rooting section. 

“Hi! Bobby,” she called. “Wait for me.” 


210 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“It’s about time,” Dixie exclaimed as she breath¬ 
lessly arrived in their midst. “We had about given you 
up. Oh, there’s the other missing member. Yvonne! 
Here we are!” 

“Oh, don’t scold,” Yvonne begged, “I was here be¬ 
fore anyone else. Or practically here, anyway.” 

Dixie looked at her quizzically, “Practically here?” 
she asked. 

“Yes, I’ve been waiting for the past half-hour outside 
a gate that said rooting section and—” 

“And then what happened?” Bobby prompted. 

“Well, about two minutes ago I discovered that it 
was for the California students. And I was wondering 
all along why everyone persisted in carrying blue and 
gold colors.” 

“Come on,” Bobby reminded, as the laughing sub¬ 
sided a little. “We just won’t get in at all if we don’t 
hurry a bit.” 

“Joan, Joan, there he is!” Bobby seized Joan tightly 
by the arm. 

“Who?” 

“That gorgeous senior who sat opposite me in the 
library last night. He’s taking tickets at our gate. 
Think of passing my ticket to him. The game can’t 
be any bigger thrill!” 

“But, Bobby,” Joan protested, “I thought you had a 
crush on that freshman.” 

“It didn’t work out so well.” Bobby sighed. “He 
sort of stuttered.” 


211 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Well, there’s such a mob here that I can’t see 
anyone I know,” Selma complained as she was jostled 
into line. “Just hundreds of strange faces attached to 
fur coats and sports clothes and what not. Classes of 
’96 and up, it looks like. Must be fun to come back 
and meet all of one’s old friends.” 

“Yes, I imagine it would be,” Bobby agreed. “All 
the fraternity members from ’way back were up the 
Row this morning having a good visit until game 

99 

time. 

The girls moved on toward the gate, and, as they 
neared it, Bobby’s excitement grew. “Girls, do give 
me your tickets. You don’t mind if I hand them to 
him, do you?” 

“Certainly not, and the sooner the better,” Dixie 
exploded impatiently. “To be lovelorn is dumb enough, 
but imagine being it over a man you’ve never even 
met! You haven’t the slightest idea what he’s like. 
If the last one stuttered, this one may lisp, or drink 
camomile tea, or—wiggle his ears!” 

“Well, I’ll soon find out about his ears, and I want 
to tell you something. If camomile tea gave him that 
profile and that perfect finger wave, I’m going home 
tonight and brew Butch a gallon of it.” 

At the picture of such a beauty treatment for Butch, 
the girls burst into giggles and were only brought to 
order by a groan from Bobby. 

A raucous voice was announcing, “Rooting sections 
here. Boys’ and girls’ rooting sections here.” 


272 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Well, that’s a gyp! On the threshold of my life 
romance, the rooting section shoves me to the left 
and tears us asunder. But never mind. He’s a marked 
man and—” 

Bobby’s chatter at last died away in her interest 
in the rooting section. Around the girls were dozens 
of their new friends and almost all of the faces were 
familiar. They settled themselves and looked about 
them. 

“Just think, the Stadium is filled.” Yvonne looked 
around her with satisfaction. “It’s like a hooked rug 
with all those bright dresses and hats close together.” 

“Yes,” Joan mused, “eighty thousand people to see 
what will happen this afternoon. And I’m afraid I 
know what it will be, too.” 

“No, you don’t, Joan.” Dixie contradicted her with 
spirit. “U. C. may have a lot of its old men left and 
Stanford have been forced to use a lot of sophomores, 
but I’m betting on Stanford just the same. She’s got 
her old spirit and a few of her best men left.” 

“Look, don’t you love the programs?” Sandra held 
hers out for them to see. 

“The coloring is beautiful, those rusty reds and 
old golds,” Yvonne agreed with enthusiasm, “but what 
does the picture mean?” 

“Why, the big golden bear that’s turning on the In¬ 
dian is The University of California. Stanford is the 
red Indian.” 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Oh dear,” Yvonne sighed, “I do wish I knew what 
football was all about. In Garrettville—” Her voice 
trailed away as all eyes were turned to greet the rival 
University’s band as it entered, marching toward the 
center to form into a pattern. At the opening strains 
of the national anthem, the girls rose. It caught their 
spirits, filled them with a confidence that left no room 
for thoughts of defeat. For a moment after its echo died 
away, there was silence, and in it, Joan’s heart said 
to her what she knew the faculty and all of the students 
of Stanford were thinking. Of all the team, Hugh 
was the only member who could lift Stanford above a 
defeat. He could supply the necessary spark that might 
enable them to win. Hugh usually did the passing 
and Rodney Sharpe the receiving—if they could only 
click today! 

“Oh, make it Hugh’s day,” she cried within herself, 
willing him victory. 

Suddenly, the scene was filled with action again. 
The teams were warming up on the field and every¬ 
one bobbed up for a better view. 

“Well, gals, say what you will, that Cal team bounc¬ 
ing around down there looks too husky for Stanford. 
We’ll see, but I doubt if Stanford rates a Pasadena 
Rose Bowl bid this year. However, don’t mistake me 
for a pessimist. I’m open to conviction. Please pass 
the candy.” 

“Oh, Sandra, will you stop hanging crepe? It’s 
our kick-off and there goes the gun. Oooo, what a nice 


2/4 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

one, end over end. There, Cal has it and—and— They 
ran it back ten yards, didn’t they?” 

During the first moments of the game, it appeared 
that Sandra’s fears were to be groundless for the 
Cardinals seemed strong enough to withstand the bat¬ 
tering of the heavier California team. On the first 
three downs, California was unable to make so much 
as a dent in Stanford’s line and Davis, quarterback 
for U. C., kicked. The ball went to the Cardinal’s 
forty yard line where it was picked up by Cronin of 
Stanford who ran back to the mid-field marker. A 
moment later Hugh completed a forward pass to 
Sharpe for a gain of twelve yards making it Stan¬ 
ford’s ball on the Bear’s thirty-eight yard line. Stan¬ 
ford went into a huddle. Then the little spot of red 
and khaki broke up, signals were called and the ball 
passed to Hugh again. Joan rose in her seat, her body 
tense as he fumbled, but recovered with a loss of five 
yards. 

After this, the game became a kicking duel between 
Langdon of Stanford and Davis of California. Both 
teams were kicking on the third down, waiting for 
an opening, when the whistle blew for the end of 
the first quarter. 

“Well, my nerves are about worn out,” Dixie gasped, 
shutting her eyes. “This see-sawing back and forth is 
wearing me down. Something will have to happen 
pretty soon.” 

“I know,” Bobby produced a package of chocolate 

2I 5 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

wafers from her pocket and passed it. “They certainly 
don’t seem to be going places, do they? Just holding 
their own.” 

“Going places?” Yvonne murmured. “Where are 
they supposed to be going?” 

“Why, you see—” Joan began, when the whistle in¬ 
terrupted. Eyes were on the teams for the second 
quarter. 

At its start, Hugh dropped back to pass, completing 
it to Sharpe for a gain of eight yards. Cheering be¬ 
gan among the Stanford rooters, but it quickly sub¬ 
sided. The referee had declared a penalty on Stanford 
of fifteen yards for holding. Another stab at Cali¬ 
fornia’s line failed to gain, and Langdon kicked. 
Watson, fullback for California, was now kicking 
for the Bears and he performed very creditably in the 
ensuing duel. Toward the middle of the second quar¬ 
ter, he sent the ball over Hugh’s head. Hugh, reaching 
for it fumbled and was downed on his own thirty-six 
yard line. But the worst was yet to come. As Hugh, 
in an effort to offset the lost yardage, attempted a pass 
to Sharpe it was intercepted on Stanford’s forty-five 
by Davis who ran it back to Stanford’s twenty-eight 
yard line before he was finally hit and brought down. 

Vainly the Stanford rooting section begged the Car¬ 
dinals to, “Hold that line!” Overpowered and disheart¬ 
ened by the successive setbacks, the Stanford defense 
crumbled under the crushing impact of the Bear at¬ 
tack. In six more plays Watson broke through for 


216 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

a California touchdown. While the entire stadium 
waited tensely, Davis successfully kicked for the extra 
point. At the end of the half, the score stood Cali¬ 
fornia 7—Stanford o. 

The second half opened with both teams using most 
of their reserve players. Reilly, a Junior, replaced Hugh 
at quarter, with Bronson in for Sharpe and practically 
an entire new forward line. Davis was still piloting 
the California team which began its assault with re¬ 
newed vigor. 

The Cardinals held firm. Twice during the quar¬ 
ter they started a march toward the Bear’s goal, and 
twice they were brought to a standstill within strik¬ 
ing distance of their objective. With about six min¬ 
utes to go in the third quarter, Davis caught a Stan¬ 
ford kick on his own twenty yard line and ran it back 
up to California’s forty-five. Faking a pass, Jones 
went around right end for a twelve yard gain for Cali¬ 
fornia making it their ball on Stanford’s forty-three 
yard line. Again he started but stopped, turned, and 
shot a pass to Millen who was brought down sharply 
twenty-seven yards from the Cardinal goal. A line 
buck shaved the distance another three yards. Again 
they tried and picked up an additional two yards, 
only to be stopped cold on their next attempt. Drop¬ 
ping back into kick formation, the Bears poised them¬ 
selves for one more effort while the Cardinals desper¬ 
ately gathered their strength to break through and 
block the kick. In a moment the ball was snapped, 


2/7 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Millen caught and held it, and Davis, with a perfectly 
executed kick, sent it sailing between the goalposts 
to bring the score to California io—Stanford o. 

Hugh again trotted on to the field with Sharpe 
as the teams changed positions for the final quarter. 

The atmosphere of the stadium had changed radically 
in the last few minutes, and a mantle of gloom and 
disappointment hung over the Stanford side of the 
Bowl. The Cardinal student rooting section was dog¬ 
gedly defying the now hilarious cheers, chants and 
songs of the Golden Bears. 

To the Roble girls the sun seemed less bright, and 
even the antics of a cute little cinnamon bear, Cal’s 
mascot, failed to amuse them. 

The quarter opened with a bang. The Stanford team 
took possession of the ball on their own thirty-five yard 
line, and in two plays, gained ten yards for a first 
down. Then time out for Stanford. In the stands, 
the spectators were beginning to gather up their pos¬ 
sessions for preparing to leave early to avoid the rush. 

On the field, Hugh Whitney’s usually smiling face 
was set in grim lines. He glanced at the tired players 
around him. “Look,” he said bluntly, “everyone’s go¬ 
ing home. Including California with our Axe! They’ve 
run us all over the place this afternoon and I’m fed 
up. Ralston, stop that tackle, and Rodney for the 
luvva Pete block that hole. We’ve got exactly thir¬ 
teen minutes to go. That makes exactly six and a half 
per touchdown.” 


218 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

His teammates looked at him, startled. 

“Yes, we’ve tried for three quarters and haven’t 
made it yet. But remember this, if you’re tired so is 
the other team. They’re battered and aching too. They 
only want to get the ball now and ‘freeze’ onto it for 
the next few minutes. I don’t mind getting licked, 
but I’ll be hanged if that crowd from U. C. is going 
home with our Axe and be able to say we folded up 
and quit. After all, we’re not a prep school team. We’re 
supposed to be men. Reilly and Morrison, open a hole 
for Sharpe. Sharpe, you try to get through and in the 
clear, and we’ll go into the air. And fellows, Roble 
has pledged its fairest as nurses if we need ’em after 
the game! Ready? Let’s go!” 

There was a little more hope in the team which now 
moved into position. California waited alertly. The 
ball was snapped. Hugh, taking it, faded back while 
Sharpe got through the California line, only to be 
immediately covered by Jackson and Murphy of the 
Bears. Hugh glanced around, hesitated, and then, 
tucking the ball under his arm, dodged an oncoming 
tackier to plow up and over the line of scrimmage 
for a gain of four yards. The next play brought the 
same result except that only two yards were gained. 
Again they went into the same formation. Again 
Sharpe managed to get through. This time, instead 
of running, Hugh threw a long pass that just missed 
the outstretched fingers of a California man and settled 
into Sharpe’s hands for a twelve yard gain. As the 


2/9 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

play started on Cal’s thirty-seven yard stripe, Hugh, 
carrying the ball, cut over to the right and suddenly 
shot a lateral pass across to Jameson who was momen¬ 
tarily in the clear. The unexpected caught the Bears 
off guard, and Jameson had covered thirteen yards 
before he was finally stopped. It was Stanford’s ball 
on Cal’s twenty-four yard line. Two plunges through 
center netted a gain of seven yards. Then, when a 
third try was expected for a first down, Hugh again 
lateralled to Jameson who attempted to pass it on to 
Sharpe only to have it knocked down and declared in¬ 
complete. Again they lined up, and this time Hugh 
shot the ball directly to Sharpe who was dashing 
down toward the U. C. goal. By a miracle Sharpe 
managed to grab and hang onto the ball in spite of 
being hit by two of Cal’s men almost simultaneously. 
Ten yards to go for a touchdown! 

The Stanford stands were wild! In a steady chant the 
Stanford Axe Yell started in the rooting section, and 
the entire mass of Stanford supporters joined in. The 
spectators stood silently as the play was hurried on by 
Stanford. Two tries through the center netted them 
six yards, and on the third down Hugh flipped a short 
pass to Sharpe across the goal line. Stanford had 
scored! The kick for the extra point went wild and 
the score now stood at California io—Stanford 6. 

California, instead of kicking, decided to play safe 
with only six minutes until the game ended. The 
shock of the Stanford attack had shaken their con- 


220 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

fidence. With two plays they brought the ball to their 
own forty-five yard line, and Davis, over-anxious, 
fumbled. Before he could recover, Sharpe, breaking 
through Cal’s defense, fell on the undefended ball. 
Again the Cardinals’ teamwork began to click, and 
they moved forward with machine-like precision. Four 
yards were gained by Morrison, as he plunged into the 
California line, only to have the referee wipe out his ef¬ 
fort with a five yard penalty. Stanford’s ball on the 
Bears’ forty-six yard line, second down, eleven yards 
to go. Hugh gained five yards around right end. 
Again he got away and streaked over left tackle for 
six yards with men hanging onto him at every avail¬ 
able spot, and then down the center for three more in 
the same fashion, driving the last one with three 
tacklers on his shoulders. 

The crowd shouted itself hoarse. Out in front, the 
cheer leaders ran back and forth on their narrow plat¬ 
form, brandishing their megaphones. Finally, the spec¬ 
tators sank back in their seats to watch what might 
follow. 

“Mercy!” Bobby hurriedly let go her clutch on the 
bow of a girl’s hat in front of her, while Joan shame¬ 
facedly hid the tattered fragments of her program be¬ 
hind her. Dixie giggled gleefully when she found 
her voice so strained from cheering that only one 
buzz-saw note was left. 

Stanford was now only thirty-two yards from their 
goal, but the quarter was fading fast. 


221 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“First down and ten to go. What do you think they’ll 
do now?” Sandra asked. 

Bobby, well versed in football lore thanks to Butch’s 
patient tutoring, looked judicial. “They’ll probably 
start passing again. There isn’t much time. You see—” 
she paused with her explanation in mid-air for the 
Cardinals had given Sharpe the ball and he charged 
through right guard for an eight yard gain. 

The Stadium rose to its feet, roaring admonitions 
and encouragement, and calling to the players by 
name. Hugh, with Bob Black in front of him, was 
swerving for a seven yard gain and a first down. 

Less than three minutes to play, and Stanford was 
still seventeen long yards from the goal line. The Car¬ 
dinals had to fight not only California but the clock as 
well! Up near the line of scrimmage, the boys went 
into a huddle. A moment later the ball was snapped 
to Hugh, who, sweeping toward the flank and cut¬ 
ting back, picked up eight more yards before he was 
brought down. Sharpe, following the same course, 
ploughed through for four more. Could they make 
it? Would they have time? The Stadium was in an 
uproar. Things like this just do not happen. A per¬ 
centage of the spectators stood tense and quiet, but the 
majority joined in a long drawn-out unearthly howl! 

Five yards to go! Hugh vainly attempted to buck 
through the center only to lose a yard. Second down 
and now six to go. Sharpe, this time carrying the ball, 
attempted to smash forward, but he was stopped after 


222 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

a two yard gain. Third down, four to go. The Cali¬ 
fornia defense was holding desperately. Hugh again 
started through only to go down a yard short of his 
goal. 

No one was quite sane! The girls alternately hugged 
and pushed each other, and the noise was too deafening 
to attempt speech. As they cheered, Hugh, in a final 
attempt was carrying the ball. Diving behind Black, 
who was driving into the California right guard, 
he fell over the goal line. 

Not waiting either for the final kick or the gun end¬ 
ing the game, the spectators poured down onto the 
field. 

Langdon hurriedly looked around, and then he 
successfully sent the ball sailing between the goal posts 
for the final point, three seconds before the pistol shot. 
The score board read California io—Stanford 13. 

“Well!” Dixie exclaimed, turning to the other girls, 
“I declare, when that boy gets steamed up he never 
runs down! All you have to do is start him off and the 
rest is easy.” 

Joan smiled, “Yes,” she thought, “once Hugh gets 
going at a thing he never will stop till it’s finished.” 

Down on the field, the band was vainly trying to 
make itself heard, and the cheer leaders were trying to 
keep order in the stands. But it was no use. The Stan- 
fordites had one thought in mind. To serpentine across 
the field and end the game as they thought it should be 
ended with the Axe Yell given in front of Cal’s dis- 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

gusted rooting section. Their ears rang with the strains 
of the Stanford Hymn as they left the Stadium. 

A few hours later the biggest celebration that San 
Francisco had seen during the year was underway. 


224 



Chapter Ten 


L ying on the grassy bluff that formed one sidewall 
of the amphitheatre, Joan closed her eyes. It was 
so quiet, so peaceful here! 

“Hello, Sis!” Hugh stood smiling down at her. “You 
really had an idea, when you suggested I meet you 
here. It’s the only place on the campus that’s still calm.” 

“Oh, Hugh, does this happen regularly? I mean 
game celebrations?” 

“Regularly. Once a year, when we win. How do you 
feel?” 

“What a question! I’m so tired I could sleep for a 
week. And I was a half-hour late getting in, in spite of 
the two-thirty late leave!” 


225 




















JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“How come?” 

“Well, Don and I, and Babe and Sandra left the 
Peacock Court of the Mark Hopkins Hotel at one 
o’clock, but the traffic jam was simply awful. It took 
us forty-five minutes to get to South San Francisco, and 
Sandra still tried to make it on time. That car of 
hers really can travel! That idea only lasted for about 
thirty seconds though,” Joan shook her head ruefully, 
“a patrol car suddenly appeared and started to clock 
us, and Sandra took her foot off the throttle as though 
it had suddenly turned red hot. We’d have been in a 
terrible mess if we’d really started to speed! The 
Dean told us and warned us she wouldn’t excuse any 
‘flying low’ down the highway to make our deadline. 
But, you must feel even worse, after that game.” 

“Like something that met a wild-cat in a concrete 
mixer,” Hugh cheerfully admitted. “That was a game!” 

“You were wonderful, Hugh! Mom and dad and— 
oh, we’re all so proud of you.” 

“Super-colossal,” Hugh grinned amiably, “’s funny 
thing. You know I really work getting data together 
to win one of those trials we stage every once in a 
while for experience. I win my case and rate a couple 
of lines in the ‘Daily’ and then make the headlines 
carrying a ball!” He shook his head doubtfully. “I 
only wish it were reversed.” 

“It will be some day,” Joan consoled. “And now—” 

“And now what?” asked Hugh sitting down beside 
her. “Aside from finding a perfect place for me to rest 


226 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

my weary bones, why did you bring me up here?” 

“That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about— 
you’re working too hard. I know,” she brushed aside 
his attempt to dodge the issue, “but can’t you stop this 
work in Palo Alto. Aside from just the game, Hugh, 
you’re really tired. You can’t deny it. If you crack up, 
that work isn’t going to have done you any good.” 

Hugh turned to her frankly. “Look, sis. I’m working 
for a swell fellow in Palo Alto. At least, I’ve learned 
a great deal from him. I’ve gotten some practical ex¬ 
perience and I’ve made some money doing it. I think 
I would quit now, only he has a big case on, trial com¬ 
ing up, and he couldn’t break another man in with¬ 
out a great deal of inconvenience. I’d be pretty low 
to walk out on him without a moment’s notice. When 
there’s a lull, I intend to. In the meantime, the cash 
is rather handy. How are you getting along? Want 
to make a touch?” He reached in his pocket, eager 
to help her in spite of his light tone. 

“No. No, no! You’re the one with heavy expenses. 
My lab fees are practically nothing. But, Hugh, do 
you really mean you’ll stop that outside work as soon 
as you can?” Joan stuck doggedly to the original 
subject. 

“Positively,” Hugh stated, “just as soon as I can. At 
the moment, though, I’m more interested in getting 
some more sleep. I only wish that we hadn’t decided 
to tour Chinatown after leaving the Mark Hopkins,” 
he grimaced sadly at the recollection. 


227 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“And that idea,” Joan agreed, “suits me too. That is, 
if I can find the energy to hike back to Roble.” 

She found the Hall unusually quiet, as those who 
had decided to spend the week-end away from the 
Campus had not yet returned, and the rest were a 
little too tired even to chatter. 

* # # 

The campus seemed to relax for several days, gath¬ 
ering, it seemed, strength for the final burst of activity 
that would come shortly with the last quarter examina¬ 
tions. 

The weather, Joan decided, sitting in class the fol¬ 
lowing week, was much too nice to spend in a class¬ 
room. Instead, teas ought to be served out on the 
lawns somewhere. Her mother, looking back over her 
Stanford days, had told of an English professor who 
had served lemonade or other refreshments during 
his poetry classes, which were held in his garden on 
Faculty Hill. If his successor carried on the tradi¬ 
tion she’d surely enroll. Only, what if one had to 
read one’s contributions aloud? It probably was less 
painful to stay in a classroom, Joan reversed her deci¬ 
sion and continued to let her eyes rove around the 
room. 

There was Betty Price across the aisle in a new blue 
knitted sport dress. The blue felt hat was tricky, too. 
That was a new dress on Mary Hales, also. Her color¬ 
ing wasn’t vivid enough for green. Why didn’t her 


225 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

family tell her? It didn’t seem to hurt her popu¬ 
larity, though. What a lot of sorority girls there 
were in this class! Bing Morrison was getting awfully 
sunburned. It wasn’t as becoming to him as it was 
to Howard Plum. Or even to Butch. How did he get 
into this class when it was only open to those with 
upper class standing? He must be visiting, too. Butch 
turned his head just then and winked at her. As she 
caught her breath and tried to look nonchalantly out 
of the window, a gust of laughter ran over the class. 
Goodness! She had missed the professor’s opening re¬ 
mark. Hastily, she glanced at May’s notebook, open 
on her arm rest. A neat heading and subheading an¬ 
nounced : 

Humor 

k 

Varieties 

1. Commonest based on ego complex showing 
superiority. 

“These are the notes from last time. Look over 
them, Joan. They’ll give you the idea,” May whispered. 

2. Lowering the standard of someone else, or 
destroying his dignity. 

3. Relief suggestion. Turns out the opposite 
from what is expected. 

4. Hostile view. 

5. Tabes down a person expecting flattery. 

6. Superior wisdom. 

7. Treating a serious thing lightly. Ex.: religion. 


229 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Joan glanced up indignantly, and scrawled across a 
page of her book for May to see, “Aren’t we all dread¬ 
ful if those things are true. I’m never going to laugh 
again unless I think first!” 

“Now,” Professor Simms went on, “there are also 
jokes that only men will laugh at, and also those that 
only women will laugh at. For example, take this 
from the Chaparral. 

’30 Co-ed—Just loo\ at these old rags—and to thin\ 
of the array of clothes l had in college. 

'27 Hubby — Sure. Didn’t you have a whole sorority 
house to pic\ from? 

“Aha, hear all the guffaws? Not a feminine giggle 
among them. That might be number three, but it’s 
also number two, at the expense of certain campus 
ladies. Now take this: 

Co-ed—You should change your style of dancing a 
littlel 

Escort—In what way? 

Co-ed—You might occasionally step on my left foot. 

“There, you see ? Giggles. No bass accompaniment.” 

Joan’s interest was divided between the lecture and 
the lecturer. He reminded her of pictures she had 
seen of Eastern Buddhas, calm with the serenity of tol¬ 
erance and understanding. She would take this course 
in esthetics later. No doubt May had chosen to invite 
her this particular day because of the amusing topic un- 


230 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

der discussion. She was immensely impressed. She 
could feel the power and sweep of this man’s knowl¬ 
edge, even in such a seemingly superficial lecture as 
this. He was opening doors for her that would later 
broaden her whole outlook on life. 

After class, her path crossed Bobby’s in the inner 
Quad. “Hi, hear the news?” 

“No. What?” 

“The frosh have an okay to go ahead with that one- 
act play, provided it’s produced this week-end and 
it doesn’t lag on to interfere with cramming for the 
exams!” 

“How on earth can they produce a play in a week?” 
Joan demanded. 

“I don’t know. But, it wouldn’t be as much fun if 
it were simple, would it? Are you going to try out 
for it ?” Bobby’s eyes sparkled with excitement. 

“Try anything once, but consider my resignation ef¬ 
fective if the audience starts throwing things in my di¬ 
rection. Tell you what we might do. You once sug¬ 
gested that if I ever needed a manager I could just 
call on you, so, instead of attending the try-outs, I’ll 
just send you up there with my clippings from High 
School!” Joan did her best to suppress her impulse 
to laugh at Bobby’s startled look. 

“Why,” she gasped, “they’d throw me out.” 

“You’re wrong,” Joan corrected. “They’d throw us 
both out. What’s the play about?” 

“It’s original and Bill Stanley, a Senior, wrote it. He’s 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

taken an average college group of co-eds as char¬ 
acters and used a typical room as his only set. His 
idea was to show the strain of a terrific continuous 
cram session and to rip away the superficial attitudes 
of the girls, and expose their real feelings.” 

“Sounds great, if it’s going to be possible to learn 
the parts in time.” 

“You don’t know Bill’s reputation. If he ever gets 
a cast assembled, they’ll learn their lines or have a 
nervous breakdown—probably both!” 

“It will be the first real chance I’ve had to get in a 
show on the campus,” Joan said earnestly. “Gosh, I 
hope I can make the grade.” 

For better, or for worse, practically all of the women 
of the freshman class turned out for those first try¬ 
outs. All were eager to take part in the production 
which the time limitation threatened to make, at the 
least, a spectacular achievement. 

Looking at the chattering, excited crowd of girls, 
Joan felt her courage wane. There was Marjorie 
Thomas, probably the most poised girl in Roble, and 
certainly the best dressed. Thelma Delong was there 
too, a tall, slender, vivacious figure who, Joan had 
often thought, could make even an old sweater and 
slacks look glamorous. And there was Billy Fiske, 
her baby eyes and cherubic smile of innocence con¬ 
cealing an extremely active and well trained mind. 
Oh, and Barbara— But Joan’s thoughts were inter¬ 
rupted by Bobby tugging excitedly at her sleeve. 

\ 


232 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Well, for goodness sakes where have you been?” 
she demanded, a little out of breath. “Selma and I 
have been searching all over for you. Quite a gang 
here.” 

“I stopped to talk with Don a moment on the way 
over. 

“Hi!” Selma edged her way through the crowded au¬ 
ditorium aisle. “Wh-e-e! This is no place for me! I’m 
tired out just seeing so much energy all around. Think 
I’ll find me a nice quiet corner and curl up and take 
a nap,” she decided. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Joan protested. “I need all 
the moral support I can wangle, right now.” 

“It does rather look like this is no place for amateurs,” 
Selma reflected, casting shrewd appraisive eyes over 
the assembly. “But, don’t get nervous yet a while,” 
she advised comfortingly. “This seems like the ‘thing 
to do’ at the moment, but wait till anything like work 
appears. Artistic ambitions are going to die, sudden 
like.” 

“Now,” Bobby decided thoughtfully, “if they’d do 
something really worthwhile like have a banquet scene 
with real props, well, I’d even be inclined to take a 
whack at being an actress myself. And would I love 
rehearsals,” she added virtuously. 

Her remarks broke the tension that was fast com¬ 
ing over the group. Joan had become more and more 
nervous as she looked over the lines that had been 
given her to read for her audition. On the stage, one 


^33 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

after the other, the girls read their prospective parts. 
Some were self-conscious, nervous and faltering; oth¬ 
ers were comparatively at ease in both voice and man¬ 
ner. “Will I? Can I?” Joan nervously fingered the 
script. 

Three minutes later, Joan was finding out. Up on 
the auditorium stage, her eyes vainly trying to pierce 
the glare of the footlights for Bobby’s reassuring grin, 
she felt very small and alone. Gone was the atmosphere 
of the high school try-outs where practically everyone 
floundered about, and a friendly teacher acted as coach. 
Here, it was different. How, when, or where, they had 
learned didn’t matter. It was solely a question of 
whether or not one could act, and, if so, how well. 
Joan wished she had paused a moment longer when 
she stopped to comb her hair on the way over. It 
felt rather mussed now. “And my brown sweater and 
skirt would have looked much better,” she thought 
as, gathering up courage, she plunged into the read¬ 
ing. The first few lines came out rather hesitatingly. 
Then, gradually, her voice became stronger and her 
manner more certain, as she lost the strangeness of the 
audience in the part she was interpreting. In a mo¬ 
ment it was over and Joan was back with Bobby and 
Selma. 

“How did I do?” she asked a little self-conscious and 
more than a little anxious, but relieved that the ordeal 
was over. 

“Great,” Selma told her, “you almost gave me the 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

jim-jams at first, though. Then you seemed to forget 
you were scared stiff and you really got down to 
business.” 

“If I looked scared, I felt terrified! Do you think I’ll 
get in?” Joan looked doubtful. 

“There’s not a chance of your missing,” Bobby an¬ 
swered confidently. “Maybe I’ll take that job as your 
manager after all. I always did want to see the world, 
and we might arrange a European tour this summer,” 
she confided. “That is, provided someone—I’m not 
mentioning any names—invites me to have a milk shake 
or other sustenance right away.” 

“It’s a bargain,” Joan agreed with a smile, and the 
three walked up the aisle past the director and the 
author who were arguing heatedly. 

“But, Bill, it just won’t work! I’m not going to give 
in this time. I don’t give a hang if you did write the 
script. I’m responsible for the casting!” 

“It’s just as easy to cast a group of girls who have 
actually been working together, isn’t it? That’s all 
I’m asking. Pick the group yourself. Any group.” 

“It’s no go, Bill. I’m away ahead of you. You think 
you can get girls who most nearly resemble the char¬ 
acters you created and then work them until their 
nerves are gone. You’re counting on replacing acting 
with realism, but it just won’t do. You can write any 
lines for the characters you wish, and make them re¬ 
spond accordingly. Turn actually overworked and 
highly strung girls loose on a stage with lines designed 


2J5 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

to irritate each other, and you’re really begging for 
trouble. I won’t take the responsibility.” 

“O.K., Tom. If you really feel that strongly about 
it, I won’t press the matter any further. But I still be¬ 
lieve it would be a great idea.” 

“Yes, it would be great, all right. Only it would 
probably get both you and me thrown out of Stan¬ 
ford, not to mention smashing up a slew of friendships 
between the girls.” 

“Sounds like they’re really going to get down to 
business fast,” Selma commented. 

“They’ll have to,” Bobby pointed out, “if this play 
is actually going to be put on next weekend.” 

“Wonder when I’ll find out if I’m going to get a 
part?” Joan eyed the battling director and author 
speculatively. “If they didn’t look so stern right now 
I’d ask, but—” 

“Oh, come on,” Bobby took her hand. “They’ll let 
you know tonight, anyway. And then expect you 
to know your lines by tomorrow,” she prophesied. 

On that score, Bobby was not far wrong. However, 
even she did not expect to see Joan standing on the 
stage again that same night. Joan, elated by her good 
fortune in being assigned the part of “Brownie” in the 
production, blinked a little apprehensively in the glare 
of the lights at the speed with which everything was 
happening. A freshman had been waiting for her 
when she returned to Roble, and, with more haste than 

236 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

ceremony, had escorted her back to the Hall. And 
now a rehearsal was already being planned! 

“Quiet, please! We don’t want to waste any more 
time.” Tom Kennedy held up his hand and the group 
quieted down. Tom and Bill, once more presenting 
a solid front, talked a moment together in an under¬ 
tone and then Tom asked for the girls’ attention. 

“Rehearsing tonight will probably be fun for most 
of you,” he began, “but in order to give a good per¬ 
formance next Saturday the fun will have to turn into 
hard work. We won’t have time to follow the usual 
routine of studying the parts and then going into re¬ 
hearsals, but will have to try to combine the two. That 
means • continual heartbreaking repetition—monoto¬ 
nous grinding away—in short, hard work. If anyone 
doesn’t feel up to it, now’s the time to say so. It’ll be 
perfectly all right now, but later—well,” he concluded 
determinedly, “there’ll be no backing out later.” 

The girls looked at each other a little hesitantly, but 
no one thought of dropping out. 

Joan watched for Geneve’s reaction, but found her 
absorbed in the script and the part of “Wendy” which 
she had been assigned. Marjorie and Thelma seemed 
undisturbed by the warning, while Billy gazed at the 
young director so intently that he became a bit flus¬ 
tered. 

“All right, then, girls. This bench, we’ll say, is the 
table. The door to the hall is on the right, the windows 
will be in the back-drop, and you’ll all be in the room 


^37 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

at the curtain. Marjorie, as Betty Van Renassaler you 
have the first line. Ready?” 

Casually, the rehearsal started, and, stumbling 
through their lines, the girls groped for the characters 
they sought to portray. Another rehearsal was called for 
the following afternoon—then after dinner—and back 
again in the evening. The minutes fled into hours, and 
the hours, in turn, seemed to grow shorter. But gradu¬ 
ally the scene began to take shape. Sharply, Marjorie 
set Betty Van Renassaler, rich, spoiled and arrogant, 
off against Joan’s “Brownie,” an average small town 
girl, while Geneve in the role of Campus Queen 
commanded their respect with her adventurous tales. 
The characters were taking shape, but the cast was 
gradually wearing out under the strain. Incidents and 
mistakes, that had evoked giggles on Monday, were 
suffered in silence by Wednesday, but caused caustic 
and heated words more than once during Friday’s 
dress rehearsal. 

Saturday night found the cast, the author, and the 
director all working under a “truce” with frayed tem¬ 
pers held in check by mere threads of self-control. 

# # # 

The curtain rose on a crowded theatre, for the pub¬ 
licity value of the attempt to create a show in one week 
was exceedingly good. 

The play started slowly as the cast was a bit too tired 
to be “exceedingly cheerful and aglow with good spir- 

238 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

its” as the supposed cram session was started. In a 
few minutes though, the strangeness of actually being 
before an audience wore off, and the girls’ actions and 
lines became more and more realistic. Then, as the 
play drew near its end, even the audience began to 
forget that it was acting they were watching. In the 
wings, Tom and Bill stood with fingers crossed. 

“You were right, Tom,” Bill ventured nervously. 
“If you had let me use an actual group who had worked 
together, and I had given them the parts as I wanted 
to do, we would have had hair-pulling by now!” 

“The next time you attempt a masterpiece, for the 
luvva Mike leave some of those vitriolic remarks out.” 
Tom groaned. “Well, only two minutes more and we’ll 
have a hit or a riot!” 

“I don’t like the glint in Geneve’s eye. She’s sup¬ 
posed to lose her temper in a minute. I hope—I hope, 
she doesn’t really—” 

“Oh!” Tom started forward and only for Bill’s re¬ 
straining hand would have stepped onto the stage. 
Geneve, her part calling for a threatening gesture with 
a dictionary, had slammed the book head-high across 
the stage at Joan! Joan, ducking back, upset her chair 
and fell to the floor, her head luckily striking the rug. 
The audience half rose, shocked. Joan, forgetting just 
where she was for a moment, felt herself experi¬ 
mentally, and, finding her dignity more injured than 
her person, rose slowly with a tenseness of figure which 
reflected more than a little desire to commit mayhem 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

at the moment. Carefully, exactly, grimly she righted 
her chair, and, picking up the offending book, started 
across the stage toward Geneve. 

“P-ss-ss-t! Joan!” Bill’s whisper and frantic gestures 
from the wings attracted her attention. “Hey, your 
slip, or petticoat, or sumpthin’, is showing. Remember, 
you’ve gotta— Oh, the president’s wife is out in front!” 

Stopping, Joan looked down. “Darned if it doesn’t 
show,” she commented distinctly, and a ripple of 
laughter ran through the theatre as she tugged on her 
skirt to cover the offending hem. Looking up again, 
she found the cast all waiting a little apprehensively 
to continue where they had stopped. At their apparent 
discomfort, Joan’s anger subsided abruptly, and, with 
a mischievous smile, she offered the book to Geneve. 
“I think,” Joan explained sweetly, “you dropped some¬ 
thing.” 

Geneve, regretting her loss of temper, hesitated and 
then silently accepted the volume, while Marjorie 
picked up her lines where she had left off, and the 
audience settled back again. Offstage, Bill and Tom 
solemnly shook hands and congratulated each other, 
and then looked for a place to sit down. The pace was 
a little too much for either one. 

Five minutes later the curtain came down marking 
the close of Joan’s debut on the Stanford stage, and, 
from the enthusiasm of the audience, it had been a suc¬ 
cessful one. 

Npt more than an hour later, after sleepily discuss- 


240 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

ing the evening with Hugh, Don, Bobby, and her other 
friends, Joan tumbled into bed, determined to sleep, 
and sleep, and then sleep some more. 

With Monday morning came the Stanford Daily. 
Eagerly, Joan scanned the first page with no results, 
then the second. On the third, she found a brief resume 
of the play and a review on the performance. Swiftly 
her eye flew down the paragraphs:— 

Cram Session, Bill Stanley’s one act 
play, succeeded in pleasing a rather 
critical audience who came expecting 
the worst as the show was put on after 
only a week’s rehearsals. . . . 

It would have been much better to 
have spent a little more time on the 
lighting. . . . 

The cast, composed entirely of Roble 
girls, acquitted itself with distinction 
considering the short time they had to 
learn their lines and characterizations. 

It was also the first time that any of 
this group had participated in a college 
production without the moral support 
of fond parents. The student body 
should hear a great deal from these 
girls before they graduate. 

One student, in particular, Joan Whit¬ 
ney, seemed to have excellent chances 
of capturing campus leads later on. She 
not only has talent, but she acted as a 
rudder for the entire cast when the 
strain became a little too much on Sat¬ 
urday night. 

“Whe-e-e!” Joan exclaimed. “Didn’t get any farther 
than page three but I did get there!” 

“Don’t be impatient,” Selma laughed. “You’ll get 
there yet.” 


241 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“My gosh, it’s almost nine. I’ve got to dash. If I 
don’t make my French class on time, I won’t have 
to worry about making the front page. Professor Dris¬ 
coll will take care of that. He’ll skin me alive!” Joan 
hurriedly tucked her books and papers under one arm 
and ran off. 

# # # 

The days that followed were even harder on Joan 
than the rehearsals the previous week. Final two-hour 
examinations loomed ahead, and the campus literally 
buzzed with activity as the students studied, alone and 
in groups. 

The thought of examinations did not make the 
Roble girls as terrorstricken as those in Mid-term for 
at least this time they knew what to expect. Too, they 
had learned to study better in a group and it was a 
little easier for all. All, excepting Yvonne, who kept 
at her books longer and longer as the University swept 
into the final week before the Christmas holidays. 

Each night a group review and the next day one or 
more examinations became their regular routine. Joan 
and the others helped Yvonne as much as possible, but 
their efforts didn’t seem to do much good. Each morn¬ 
ing she would leave Roble with determination in every 
line of her body, only to return in the afternoon more 
discouraged than ever. 

For herself, Joan found the exams, while intricate, 
not too difficult after the amount of cramming she had 


2/J.2 


/OAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

done. When the week was over she felt that, at least, 
she had managed to pass. 

Wandering across the Quad with Hugh on Saturday 
morning after the finals, Joan felt completely free and 
happy. Their bags were all packed, and by five o’clock 
they would be homeward bound for the holidays. 

“Oh, Hugh, look!” she grabbed Hugh’s arm in ec¬ 
stasy. At the curb stood an old horse and buggy be¬ 
longing to a peddler. “And there he is. The man. It 
must be. He just matches the outfit.” 

A wizened old man, who looked as though he might 
be Spanish, was coming toward them across a little 
open space. Bobbing along at a rheumatic gait, he 
came close and they beckoned to him. 

“Hi, mister, horse and buggy for rent?” 

It was a matter of moments, and a fifty cent piece, 
before he would comprehend. Then, Joan and Hugh 
piled in. 

The road which led into the hills was skirted at times 
by wild vines and bushes. Then again it opened on 
fields dotted with oak trees. Hugh, his feet propped 
on the dashboard, whistled a tune. A meadow lark 
seemed to answer it. 

“Hi! Hey! For Pete’s sake! What do you call 
this?” From the underbrush came shrieks of laughter. 
Around a bend, the back of a car was visible. Bobby 
and Butch, Sandra and Henry Newton, a fraternity 
brother, were standing beside Sandra’s speedster, as the 
buggy came up with them. They ignored the super- 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

cilious stares of Joan and Hugh as the buggy passed, 
and came running after it. 

Bobby and the boys, catching up, piled in, but Sandra, 
sizing up the horse’s possibilities, scrambled up on his 
back. There, she balanced herself as though riding 
side-saddle, her foot braced on the shaft. 

“Oh,” Bobby suddenly moaned, when the excite¬ 
ment had subsided, “our food! We were having tea. 
Picnic tea. Oh, let’s go back and get it.” 

Joan and Hugh were enthusiastic. “But are you 
sure there’s enough?” 

“I don’t know.” Butch looked dubious. “All we 
brought, Henry and I, was potato chips, and olives 
and canned chicken and cold ham and potato salad 
and rolls and cake and sn—” 

“Say no more. We’re fainting with hunger already. 
To think that Bobby was endowed with a brother with 
a food complex. And that we ran across a combination 
like that on a day like this!” 

A half hour before train time, the stout little horse 
trotted into Palo Alto after a hasty stop on the Row 
and at Roble for luggage. He disgorged its passengers 
into a gay homeward bound crowd that greeted their 
unorthodox arrival with good-humored cheers. 



Chapter Eleven 


W ith the beginning of the winter quarter, Roble 
Hall made ready for the most hectic period in 
its entire year. The whole program of formal sorority 
rushing, with its round of dinners and luncheons, was 
to be crammed into one feverish week. 

“According to my figuring,” Bobby chewed her pen¬ 
cil thoughtfully and scanned the scratches on her pad, 
“the odds are just three-and-a-half to one against our 
being pledged. That is, excluding the human element.” 

“How do you figure that?” Sandra looked lazily 
over from the couch. 

“Well, there are about three hundred and fifty new 
women and only about a hundred are usually pledged 
each year.” 


2 45 












JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Heck! On that basis, you might figure that per¬ 
haps the entire three hundred and fifty want to be 
pledged by the same house. Let’s see. That would 
make it about thirty-five to one.” 

“Say,” Selma interrupted, “who started that argu¬ 
ment? This rushing is hard enough without bringing 
mathematical problems into it!” 

“I was just thinking,” Bobby explained. 

“You just spoil one of those sorority’s beautiful teas 
by eating all the cakes, and no amount of pencil figur¬ 
ing will help you out!” Joan warned. 

“Aw, you’re all jealous,” Bobby retorted, munching 
an apple she had just discovered. “If they’re only go¬ 
ing to serve those tiny cookies at their darned teas, why 
I’ll stick a couple of sandwiches in my pocket before 
I go up there. Then, both they and I will be happy.” 
She grinned at the consternation her amiable solution 
to the problem had caused. 

“Bobby, if you dare!” Selma threatened vaguely. 

“Why,” Joan complained, “can’t they spread rush¬ 
ing over a little longer period? Of course, they did 
have those three teas in November for the pledges they 
were most interested in, besides the welcoming tea back 
in October, but I still think if we followed the fra¬ 
ternities’ plan and the functions were held over an 
entire term we’d know each other better.” 

“Perhaps,” agreed Sandra, “but have you even seen 
a campus when the sororities are doing really serious 
rushing?” 


246 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“No,” admitted Joan. “But Hugh has told me how 
the fraternities go about it.” 

“Men take fraternities more or less in their stride 
compared to women. Wait and see! You’ll find that 
Roble will practically be in hysterics before this week 
is over.” 

“Well, as near as I can make out,” Bobby proclaimed, 
“the only real difference between living in a sorority 
and in a hall is a Greek name. And, as long as practi¬ 
cally nobody can read Greek anyway, what difference 
does it make? Let’s settle the whole question, and 
save a lot of energy, by merely getting Selma to paint 
us a pretty emblem to hang over the door. Then, 
maybe, I can get some sleep!” 

“Bobby, will you stop trying to give us nervous 
prostration?” Joan begged. “Besides, they’re not names. 
They’re letters.” 

“That reminds me,” Bobby recalled irrelevantly, 
“here’s a letter I picked up for you.” 

Joan read the short note silently and passed it to 
the others. “It’s from Yvonne,” she explained. 

Dear Joan, 

Here l am bac\ at Garrettville to stay. And, oh dear, 
I cant help hut he glad. Kiltie, my Scottie, had lost 
pounds pining for me and Dad turned in my little 
old car for a swan\ new rust colored one. Tve bought 
a hat to match the car. And we've made over the ten¬ 
nis court for badminton. The crowd drops in for a 


247 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

game almost every afternoon. Mothers going to give 
a tea for me next wee\. 

To tell the truth, 1 didn't do so well in my finals, 
and I couldn't hear to go bac\ on probation. It left 
me feeling like I was fust teetering on the edge. So I'm 
going to take up singing instead. Maybe if I'm real 
good, you'll be able to tune in on me one of these days. 
X Y Z's most popular artist, ahem! 

Say “Hello" to everyone for me. I miss you loads, 
but I guess I wasn't cut out for a college gal. Lots of 
luc\. 

Love from 
Yvonne 

Write! 

“That was pretty hard on her,” Bobby commented 
soberly. “She was so sweet and full of fun that I can’t 
help wishing that she could have stayed on.” 

“No. I disagree on that point,” Selma shook her 
head. “It’s much better that she dropped out. It’s true 
we all enjoyed having her with us, and she un¬ 
doubtedly liked the social life here, but the poor kid 
was killing herself trying to keep up in her studies.” 

“I think she’ll be happier back in Garrettville any¬ 
way,” Sandra pointed out. “That’s the life she wants 
and would eventually have gone back to. There really 
wasn’t any particular point to her attending Stanford 
for four years. It would probably have made her dis- 

248 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

satisfied with that little town without fitting her prop¬ 
erly for anywhere else.” 

“I guess you are all right,” Bobby agreed finally. 
“But it was so homey to find her curled up on the 
couch with a book and some candy looking as peace¬ 
ful and contented as a kitten.” 

“It can’t be helped, so there’s no point to our worry¬ 
ing about it now. All we can do is wish her luck.” 

“Returning to the subject under discussion,” Selma 
spoke a bit wearily, “I understand we’re to wear our 
regular Quad clothes to the sorority luncheons, and 
dressy street clothes to the dinners. Now, the question 
arises as to just what to wear.” 

“I rather suspect,” Bobby decided sedately, “that they 
rather expect us to wear skirts, and maybe a blouse, 
or jacket, or sumpthin’ with them.” 

“Bobby, in just about two minutes we, a committee 
of three, are going to take a certain Roble girl out and 
dunk her in Lagunita Lake, that is, if said certain 
frosh doesn’t calm down mighty quick,” Joan prom¬ 
ised grimly. 

“All right!” Bobby subsided. “I was just trying to 
help.” 

“Is this a private pow-wow or can anyone get in?” 
Dixie stood in the open doorway surveying the scene. 

“Come on in. We’re now trying to figure out what 
to wear to those luncheons and dinners up on the 
Row.” 

“Seriously, Joan,” Bobby asked, “what do you think 


249 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

of a sorority as a place to live as compared to a Hall?” 

“They claim that women have more freedom and 
independence in a sorority than would be possible in a 
larger unit.” 

“Yes, acting as a group, but not individually. It’s 
true that while house-mothers in sororities have little 
or no authority, directors in university units necessarily 
have a large share in the planning and administration 
of group activities. But, which is more important, in¬ 
dividual freedom or freedom of the group as a whole ? 
Personally, I’d take the former.” 

“That depends a whole lot on the individual,” 
Sandra interposed. “Probably you’d rather stand on 
your own feet. You’re capable enough to do it. In 
fact, I imagine this entire group is. But, just think 
of how many other people aren’t. How many that 
will go through life always seeking someone, or some¬ 
thing to lean on. They form the nucleus of organiza¬ 
tions like sororities. No, I don’t mean that the entire 
groups are composed of those who are incapable of 
standing alone, for they’re not. You’ll generally find 
though, that a few carefully chosen brilliant perform¬ 
ers will be constantly on hand to keep the scholastic, 
social and activity record of the unit high enough to 
reflect indirect credit on those who would otherwise 
pass unnoticed.” 

“But girls don’t change just because they join a soror¬ 
ity,” protested Joan. “If their life aim is to be satel¬ 
lites, well, they’re going to follow that course no mat¬ 
ter where they live—Hall or Row.” 


250 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“And,” Selma rose to the defense, “remember that 
while a dormitory encourages each one to participate 
in group activities, a sorority makes it absolutely neces¬ 
sary for them to do so. No one is allowed to just 
sit by in comfort while the others work.” 

“I agree with you on those points,” Sandra nodded. 
“At the same time don’t forget that the sorority girls 
are human beings who once lived in Roble, too. They 
have the same virtues and faults we have. They owe 
their loyalty to the sorority that pledges them, and 
remember that, after all, sororities here are really small 
clubs that only pledge ten or twelve new members a 
year. Naturally—” 

“Hey!” Dixie broke in. “You’re turning this into 
practically a debating society. What’s the idea, any- 

> 5 ) 

way: 

“We’re just letting off steam,” Bobby advised with 
a grin, “then we’ll all trot out our best bibs and tuck¬ 
ers, look as demure as possible and attend all of the 
functions with our fingers crossed.” 

“Hush!” Sandra scolded. “Now,” she continued, “as 
I was saying—oh, yes—when a house only pledges a 
dozen, each member has to count. Should the present 
members successively make poor pledge selections, the 
house would lose caste in practically no time at all. 
On the other hand, a few of the girls already in the 
house will have friends from their home towns, and 
naturally will wish to pledge them. Let’s say these 
girls are not lacking in any quality, nor are they par¬ 
ticularly outstanding—they’re just average. Now, after 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

these have been slated for pledging, the Row girls have 
no choice except to carefully choose Roble’s most prom¬ 
ising candidates, and, in that way, make sure that their 
house average, both scholastically and socially, will be 
above reproach.” 

“How on earth did you find all that out?” Selma 
looked at her curiously. 

“My mother was a sorority girl, and I’ve got cousins 
scattered all over the country who belong. Also we 
used to have discussions in school long before I got 
here.” 

“Speaking of mothers,” Dixie confessed, “mine will 
practically disown me if I’m not pledged! She still 
remembers her own college days and just won’t believe 
that the sororities have changed since then.” 

“Uh, oh! You’re really in a fix, Dixie,” Selma sym¬ 
pathized. “Couldn’t you write to her and explain the 
difference between this and other campuses? Tell her 
that there just isn’t room for more than a very small 
percentage of the women in the sorority houses, and 
that it’s not really worth worrying about anyway.” 

“No,” Dixie shook her head a little despondently. 
“I’ve sent everything including articles from the Daily , 
but Mother just seems to pay no attention to anything 
I say.” 

“Don’t worry, Dixie,” Joan attempted to reassure 
her. “You’ll receive a bid. I’m sure of it.” 

“But for goodness sakes don’t let her write, wire or 
telephone any sorority and try to ‘fix it’ for you,” Sandra 


252 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

warned. “In Stanford you’re a woman, not a child. 
And win or lose, it’s considered every woman’s per¬ 
sonal problem to solve as she sees fit.” 

“No, she offered to, but I told her it just wasn’t done. 
I would like to be invited to join the Alphas, but I 
don’t think that it is exactly a life or death proposi¬ 
tion. May hasn’t joined one, and she seems as con¬ 
tented and happy as any girl I’ve seen on the campus.” 

“Do you think that we can all stick together and 
make the same house?” Bobby took a final bite of the 
apple and lazily tossed the core across the room to a 
wastebasket, where it hesitated a moment on the rim 
and dropped in. 

“I do hope we can,” Joan fervently agreed. “Any¬ 
way, if we do split forces, we can still be good friends.” 

“Wasn’t there quite an argument in Roble one year 
about that?” 

“Yes, May was telling me about it the other day. 
It seems to have started in a Sunday night bull session 
after a few women, some of whom were assured of 
bids, came to the conclusion that the pledging was sure 
to break up first year friendships when some of its 
members joined sororities. Well, they kept the debate 
up for about a week before—” 

“Who won?” Dixie’s debating instinct was finally 
aroused. 

“Neither side, or maybe the sororities had a slight 
lead at the finish. The Roble girls decided that states¬ 
manship was the better part of valor and more com- 


2 53 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

fortable in all respects. First they solemnly voted a 
clear indictment of the whole sorority system, and 
they adopted a unanimous agreement to pledge!” 

“What I’m wondering is, will living in a sorority 
keep us in a continual state of bankruptcy? That is, 
if we do get bids. I’ve heard that living expenses are 
higher than in dormitories. I’m practically broke now. 
Much more expense and I’ll never catch up.” Selma 
looked so mournful that the immediate response was 
laughter instead of sympathy. 

“Never mind, Selma,” Sandra remarked consolingly, 
“it won’t be very much higher. It’s a little bit more, 
due to the self-administration, but the girls figure that 
the experience is worth the added expense.” 

“Hi, everybody. The prodigal child returns. And 
b’gosh I just made it too. Forty-five seconds short of a 
lock-out is really timing it!” Geneve swirled into the 
room a little out of breath. “Why all the seriousness?” 
she asked gaily. 

“We were just picking the sororities apart,” Sandra 
explained. “They’ll have their turn this week to talk 
about us, and we just sort of figured we’d have our 
innings first.” 

“Why pick on them when you know that you all are 
just as anxious as I to be pledged? Won’t it be fun 
on the Row, though? Just think of all the parties and 
good times we’ll have! And will I make being an 
Alpha really count when dances like the Junior Prom 
roll around!” 


2 54 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“When, and if, you become an Alpha,” Sandra com¬ 
mented drily. 

“Oh, don’t be an old kill joy. Of course I’m going 
to pledge the Alphas. We all are, aren’t we?” she 
asked a little hesitantly. 

“We all hope to, but if the Alphas even suspect that 
you look upon their house as merely a convenience in 
getting invitations to parties, they definitely won’t like 
it. And that’s putting it mildly.” 

“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way. That is—” Geneve 
stopped, a little puzzled. “I guess, truthfully, that I 
did mean something like that though,” she confessed, 
a tinge of red coloring her cheeks. “But really I don’t 
think of pledging as lightly as it might have sounded. 
I realize that there are responsibilities and work in a 
sorority, too.” Ill at ease, and not knowing just what 
to say, Geneve looked around the group appealingly 
for some sign of understanding. 

“You know, Geneve,” Sandra returned her look 
thoughtfully, “your intentions are probably good ninety 
percent of the time, but people haven’t time, and won’t 
take the trouble, to analyze your actions and comments 
in most cases. If you don’t curb your impulse to jump 
first and look afterwards you’re going to find it hard 
sledding later on. Dad once told me that a person is 
rarely judged by what he actually thinks or does, but 
rather on the basis of the impression he creates in the 
minds of others.” 

As she stopped the girls stirred uneasily, while 


2 55 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Geneve, thinking of seven other places she’d prefer to 
be at that moment, looked completely crestfallen. Joan 
desperately tried to bridge the silence. 

“You’re slipping, Sandra,” she exclaimed lightly, 
“you were much better on sororities. Geneve, you 
really ought to have been here earlier. Sandra was 
going strong. First on sororities, then on each of us, 
and then, just when she was looking for a new victim, 
in you walk! Anyway, just to show you all what a 
public spirited person I am, I’m going to give you each 
two pieces of candy and then shoo you off to your re¬ 
spective nooks. Everyone, that is but Bobby. She only 
gets one piece.” 

“How come?” Bobby demanded. “I’m the hun¬ 
griest.” 

“Well in that case you may have two. I was going 
to penalize you for eating my apple when I wasn’t 
looking.” 

* # # 

With the fraternities already started in their last two 
weeks of rushing, and the sororities poised for the 
start of their first rushing period, campus life took on 
added zest. 

Crisp new frocks, complemented by especially attrac¬ 
tive hats lent moral support to the girls’ spirits as they 
sought to match the splendor of the sorority girls on 
dress parade. 

Gaily decorated, with snow-white tables covered 

256 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

with crystal and silver, the sororities presented a pic¬ 
ture that as one Roble girl remarked “was too darn 
pretty to disturb,” while the poise and self-confidence of 
the hostesses lent added charm to the quiet dignity 
of the houses. 

But by the time the weekend of luncheons and din¬ 
ners was over, the girls were not only very subdued, 
but very tired. 

“Hi Joan!” Del sank to a chair beside her on the 
Roble porch. “What’s the matter? You look just about 
all in.” 

“Del, where’s your car?” Joan asked dispiritedly. 
“I’d love to go back up in the hills some place and 
do about three handsprings, and then find a merry- 
go-round and go round and round. This rushing has 
rather gotten me down. It seems as if I’ve been trying 
to be so polite, and dignified, and sweet, and obliging, 
and—” 

“And you want to take a day off and just kick up 
your heels,” Del finished. “Yes, I know. It’s been the 
same way with me. The fraternities take it a bit easier 
but still, every time I go up to the Delta’s I’m always 
afraid I’ll commit some sort of a faux pas. Let’s take 
a ride and forget it for a while. The car’s just across 
the road by the library.” 

As the little old car at last got over her usual fit of 
sputtering and settled down to a more or less steady 
speed, the two turned their attention to conversation. 

“Did you see a copy of the Bawl-Out yet?” Del 


2 57 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

deftly slipped around a lumbering truck. “I’m still 
on the plus side of the ledger, and you look as though 
you’re on your way to membership in the ancient and 
honorable order of Phi Beta Kappa. Whatta gal!” 

“I’m a long way from that, yet,” Joan disclaimed. 
“What I’d really like to be offered membership in is the 
Cap and Gown—for outstanding campus activity. 
That really would be sumpthin’.” 

“Well you made a good start toward it. The fel¬ 
lows are still talking about that play. It seems to be 
remembered far more than most of those that were 
put on last term. Wait till you’re a Sophomore and 
then you can really get into action. You’ll have more 
time and standing, besides being better prepared for 
that sort of thing. Right now just think of all the 
good you’re doing just keeping me out of mischief!” 

“Del, why is it that Geneve is not very popular with 
the men at Encina?” Joan suddenly asked a question 
that had been puzzling her for some time. “I mean, she 
seems to have made friends with quite a few, but for 
no apparent reason they and she never seem to get 
along.” 

“She always has somebody around,” Del offered 
casually. 

“Yes, I know that. But it’s always a different one. 
Most of the girls have rather settled down into groups 
in Roble, and you’ll generally find pretty nearly the 
same men with each group most of the time at parties 
or other social events. Geneve’s an exception, and I 
can’t figure out why.” 


258 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“It’s easy,” Del commented. “She tries to act too 
sophisticated. After all, the fellows are interested in 
having fun too, and there’s not much pleasure in 
spending a day or an evening with someone who 
seems about as human as a Dresden doll.” 

“But she’s so attractive and she dresses beautifully,” 
Joan protested. “And she really is intelligent.” 

“And unreasonable,” Del argued. “Heck, we save 
and borrow and everything else to take someone out, 
and then to feel that we have completely failed to pro¬ 
vide sufficient entertainment is rather discouraging to 
say the least. It’s not a question of the money, for no 
one begrudges that if it succeeds in making some¬ 
body happy. But the time and energy wasted in try¬ 
ing to arouse a little of Geneve’s enthusiasm causes too 
much wear and tear on the men’s nerves. They just 
won’t be bothered. Which reminds me, how about the 
Pledge Prom Saturday? Am I too late or,” Del at¬ 
tempted old English couched in Chinese phraseology, 
“Wilt thou bring happiness into the life of this most 
unworthy person by giving him the honor of escort¬ 
ing you to this dazzling celebration?” 

“I’d love to. I mean,” Joan tried to answer in the 
same form, “Your humble companion would— Oh, 
it gets all twisted up in my mind. I really would enjoy 
going with you, though.” 

“Then it’s settled. That’s the day we parade up the 
Row. That is, if we’re pledged.” 

“Worried?” 

“A little,” Del admitted, “If I can only pledge the 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Delta’s I’ll be happy, but I don’t know. There’s a huge 
crowd trying to do the same thing, and naturally 
everybody can’t be pledged. There isn’t room, even if 
they wanted to.” 

“Well, don’t worry. You’ll be chosen. I’m sure of 
it,” Joan smiled reassuringly. “That parade is quite a 
custom, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. About one o’clock the Interfraternity Lawyer 
and the President of the Interfraternity Council will 
come to Encina, and, then, after stating our preference 
and signing the card, we’re supposed to climb out of 
the window and march up the Row.” 

“I intend to see that marching business,” Joan’s eyes 
twinkled mischievously. “It would be a treat to see 
Encina’s noblest marching in any sort of order.” 

“Could it be that you’re casting aspersions on our 
fair heads which move so quietly around the Farm?” 

“Undoubtedly you move. But never quietly,” Joan 
corrected. “The walls of Encina would probably cave 
in if a class of freshmen entered who didn’t think it 
their duty to attempt to tear them down.” 

“Uh, oh, I have a strange presentment of evil days 
to come,” Del groaned. “Now listen, Joan. The men 
let the Stanford women talk them out of wearing their 
practically priceless cords. They’ve made them wear 
shoes that matched, and sometimes a tie, and toned 
down the razzle-dazzle cars, but b’gosh, if they ever 
start in on all the fun we have dropping bags of water 
on other unsuspecting or unwary Stanfordites, it means 


260 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

war. Yep,” he gritted his teeth and attempted a fero¬ 
cious grimace, “war!” 

“Never mind,” Joan laughed. “Pretty soon the En- 
cina men will all be big boys. And maybe, some day, 
the freshmen will have put away their toys before they 
arrive at Stanford, and the tradition will be lost for¬ 
ever.” 

“I surrender,” Del begged, “I should have known 
better than to debate any question with a woman when 
I’ve never won one so far. As a token of your victory 
I’ll provide one super-gigantic ice cream soda literally 
swarming with vitamins.” 

“Peace terms accepted,” Joan promptly rejoined, “ex¬ 
cept that I’m also holding out for a piece of cake.” 

A few minutes later, seated in a little dairy, they 
were industriously and contentedly engaged with two 
large cool glasses when a huge plane roared over head. 

“It’s a Douglas D. C. 4 ,” Del commented automati¬ 
cally as he watched it through the window. “Some¬ 
day, I’m going to be able to design an even bigger 
ship.” 

“Your flying experience will come in handy then. 
And by the way, have the birds still an edge on you, 
or are you able to show them tricks now?” 

“Not quite,” Del confessed. “I can take the plane 
up all right and fly fairly evenly, but when I land—” 
he shook his head sadly at the recollection. 

“You actually haven’t had much time yet. Give your¬ 
self a chance.” 


261 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Oh, I won’t solo for quite a while, but then I’ll 
really demonstrate how it’s done,” Del promised with 
a smile, “I hope!” 

“Right now, not to change the subject, we’ve got to 
start back. There’s another dinner at the Alpha’s to¬ 
night that I just can’t miss,” Joan reminded. 

“Consider yourself practically there,” Dell told her, 
“that is, if the car will agree to start at all.” 

The Monday dinner signaled the beginning of the 
second period of rushing, during which it was per¬ 
missible for the girls to accept two dates for a single 
house. Dixie and Bobby had joined Joan in her first 
visit to the Alpha’s. Then Sandra, Geneve and Selma 
joined the trio, with Saxon receiving bids for the re¬ 
maining affairs as the second period activities began. 

Monday night, Tuesday afternoon, Tuesday night— 
the tempo increased continuously before receding like 
a huge wave on Wednesday morning when all con¬ 
tact between the Row and Roble would cease for a 
day. 

Inside Roble, as the students wearily returned Tues¬ 
day night, calmness was the prevailing note. Tense¬ 
ness and worry perhaps, but there was little more any 
of them could do to further their cause. All they could 
do now was to wait. 

“Darn it,” Dixie frowned at the world in general, 
“this rushing would be perfect if we were just left 
alone. Then if we pledged, fine. If we didn’t we could 
forget about it and do something else. But when let- 


262 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

ters keep coming in from home—” she turned gloom¬ 
ily toward the window. 

“Don’t pay any attention to them,” Selma advised. 
“And stop fretting. There’s nothing more we can do 
except get some rest, and goodness knows we need 
that. Two days more will tell the tale.” 

Outside, the storm descended on the campus in the 
form of letters and telegrams to sorority presidents 
and sponsors, while long distance telephone calls con¬ 
tinued to pour into Roble from fond parents and 
friends, causing more misery than the girls could think 
of themselves. 

And, as the excitement without and the tenseness 
within Roble steadily drew to a climax, the residents 
of the Row met behind closed doors to finally pass 
upon the candidates. 



Chapter Twelve 


T here, that’s that!” Rita, the President of the 
Alpha’s, closed the front door with finality on the 
retreating form of the last rushee. She turned to sur¬ 
vey the wide rooms. Flowers were wilting everywhere, 
and on a long table were the remains of a buffet spread. 
On couches and chairs, the Alpha girls relaxed, spent 
from a long evening of dancing and conversation. 
Ginger, her slender figure in violet velvet topped by 
a round face and silky black hair, yawned and reached 
for a sandwich. 

“Well, thank goodness, one more rushing season 
almost checked off. I haven’t an ounce of chatter left 

264 











JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

in me. That Hawkins girl just sits and smiles and 
smiles, and leaves all the yapping to someone else. 
She’s a good dancer, though.” 

“Well I’d rather hear myself yap than listen to a few 
hours of it from someone else. If Eleanor Gay comes 
into the house, she’ll find me behind padlocked doors. 
I know everything that ever happened to her from 
the time she was four years old, and perhaps some 
things that didn’t,” and the couch creaked with a 
mammoth sigh. 

“Well, gals,” the President rose and started for the 
stairs, “what do you say we go up and take a vote? 
Might as well get it over with. Especially while we’ve 
got them all fresh in our minds.” 

Soon, the girls were assembled in Rita’s room. She 
sat on the table, swinging her pajama-clad legs, as the 
group drifted in, after changing to more comfortable 
night clothes and kimonos. Piling cushions on the 
floor, they lounged in a circle around her. 

“O. K. to read for the voting?” 

“Yes, go on.” 

“Francis Hillis?” 

“Yes!” from the chorus. 

“Bobby Wellman?” 

Again “Yes.” 

“Oh, her brother, Butch, is simply grand!” Doris 
blurted out impulsively. “I mean—” she hastily sought 
to change the subject. 

“H’m-mn. So that’s why you’ve gained eight pounds 

265 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

in two weeks! Butch and his milk shakes! I see it all 
now,” Billy gleefully led the onslaught. “You, having 
pledged your loyalty to the house, planned to use it 
for your own base profit. Why—” 

“Hey! You’re getting all mixed up. Her feet are her 
base. ’Tain’t her feet that will profit, it’s her tummy!” 

“Well, why be indirect? We are all pledged to help 
one another and the only thing I can think of,” vol¬ 
unteered Ruth, “is to pledge Butch himself. Then 
Doris will be sure of a daily soda!” 

“Have a heart,” Doris begged. 

“Girls!” Rita attempted to make herself heard. 
“Come on now, we’ve got quite a bit left to do to¬ 
night. Billy, no more shenanigans till this is over. 
Hush!” she added sternly as the culprit started to de¬ 
fend herself. “We’re all agreed on Bobby Wellman, 
then?” 

A nod from each of the girls recorded their ap¬ 
proval. 

“Selma Bogart?” 

“Yes.” 

“We surely need someone around here with an ar¬ 
tistic touch,” Martha commented, as she tossed her 
blond curls back from her forehead. 

“I don’t know whether I ought to resent that insinua¬ 
tion or not.” Janet, who was usually the chairman of 
the committee appointed to decorate the house for 
special occasions, pondered the comment. 

“Not tonight, Janet, it’s getting too late,” Rita 


266 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

pleaded. “Besides, by tomorrow morning you can think 
up a really withering retort.” 

“All right,” Janet agreed, “but bright and early, 
even before breakfast, I shall deliver a devastating an¬ 
swer. I can really squelch people more effectively be¬ 
fore they’ve had breakfast,” she confided. 

“Geneve Anderson?” 

“Yes!” 

“No!” 

“Why not?” 

“Wait a minute!” Rita rapped on the table for 
order. “Now, let’s take it one at a time. If you all 
talk at once it will be next winter before we get fin¬ 
ished. Marjorie, you seem to be leading the opposing 
faction. What objection have you to pledging her?” 

“I think she’s been badly spoiled—she certainly acts 
like it at least—and she’s about as conceited a person 
as I’ve ever met.” 

“Does that about sum up the negative side?” Rita 
looked questioningly at Hazel. 

“I think so,” the other agreed. 

“Well, she must have some good traits, too. Else 
she wouldn’t have been proposed. How about it 
Peggy?” 

“I think she’s really nice.” Peggy rose warmly to 
the defense. “Perhaps she is a bit spoiled, but you can’t 
really blame her for that. She’s an only child, and I 
guess her mother and father gave her everything she 
wanted that they could afford. I think she’ll get over 

267 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

it before she’s around here very long. As far as being 
conceited, remember we weren’t exactly perfect when 
we were freshmen, either. And we still have a long 
way to go. She came from a small town where her 
mother led the social set, her father was one of the 
pillars of finance, and she was rather considered the 
‘belle’ of the high school. That sort of a background 
would make practically anyone except an angel a bit 
stuck-up.” 

“Suppose we agree with you,” Hazel countered. 
“That won’t change the fact that at the present time 
she isn’t the type of girl the Alpha’s have been in the 
habit of pledging.” 

“Perhaps not, on the surface, but I do think that 
she is not only attractive, but that she really has brains 
underneath that pose. After all, a sorority should be 
willing to make a few allowances and help an other¬ 
wise suitable pledge to gain poise and confidence.” 

“Poise and confidence, yes, but I don’t think the 
Alpha House should be turned into a primary school 
so that egotistical, self-centered girls can be taught 
good manners. Besides, if she still has childish ideas 
there is no reason why we should be bored with them. 
Remember, we’ll all have to live with her.” Hazel’s 
manner left no doubt as to her position in the matter. 

“Hazel,” Rita’s voice cut smoothly into the argu¬ 
ment, “do you remember Estelle Warren? She was a 
Senior when you came to live here.” 

“Of course,” Hazel admitted looking a bit puzzled 


268 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

at this sudden change of topic. “But what has she to 
do with Geneve Anderson’s being pledged?” 

“Nothing directly, and yet quite a bit, indirectly.” 

“But she was graduated a year ago,” Marjorie pro¬ 
tested. 

“And do you also remember your own freshman year 
here?” Rita continued calmly. 

“Not if I can help it,” Hazel murmured uncom¬ 
fortably. “I seemed to be continually doing the wrong 
things that first year. I’ll never forget, though, the 
day I walked into the Law Building and demanded 
the room number of the elementary French class! That 
was a classic on the Farm for a whole year,” she shook 
her head ruefully. “But what has that to do with our 
voting now?” 

“Just that Estelle was responsible for your being 
pledged that year,” Rita went steadily on. “You see, 
there was quite a debate over it at the time. Remem¬ 
ber, that was the fall you had a terrific crush on that 
math professor—the one with the long black beard? 
The girls didn’t object so very much to either the crush 
or the professor, but the beard—well, that actually was 
the finishing touch. You were always comparing it 
to one you’d seen on a member of the Foreign Legion 
in the movies. And when I say always, well, I mean 
just that. Morning and night. Estelle claimed you’d 
get over it and then really be sumpthin’, which you 
are,” she added warmly. “But first there was the 
French professor who made you dream of Paris in 

269 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

the spring, and then the Captain of the football team. 
The funny part was that none of these men even knew 
you were on the campus. Anyway,” Rita concluded, 
“you suffered in anything but silence during that first 
term on the Row, and the Alpha’s suffered with you 
to the last man.” She smiled at the sheepish look on 
Hazel’s face. 

“You win, Rita. I really must have been a nuisance 
in those days, probably still am sometimes,” Hazel 
confessed ignoring the mischievous grins that prom¬ 
ised willingness to remind her of those freshman days 
for some time to come. “It was silly of me, I guess, but 
we all have to learn. Okay, as far as I’m concerned, 
she’s in!” 

“Any more objections?” Rita looked around the 
circle. “All right, then. Geneve receives a bid. Now 
the next is—” she consulted the list, “Carol Brown¬ 
ley?” 

“Yes.” 

“Who is she?” Peggy questioned. 

“That blond girl who was wearing the brown 
sweater and skirt tonight. The one I’ve been talking 
about all week,” Ginger declared, a little irritated at 
Peggy’s not remembering. “She used to be in one of 
my classes at Marlboro, and she’s a darn swell kid!” 

“All right, all right. I was only asking,” Peggy 
meekly explained. 

“She makes five.” Rita turned over the page. 
“Sandra Hollister?” 


270 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Yes!” 

“But will she come?” Ruth looked doubtful. “She 
really has been given a rush by all the houses, and just 
yesterday Terry Callahan of the Kappa’s was talking 
mighty confidential to her.” 

“Don’t worry,” Rita advised confidently. “She’ll 
come if the others in her group do. She knows that 
she’ll have more fun that way.” 

“Well, that’s settled. Now, Helen Wing?” 

“Yes.” 

“Joan Whitney?” 

“Yes.” 

“You know, girls,” Rita suggested, “after she gets 
here, I’d keep her busy, if I were you. She ought to 
make a good President for the Alpha’s later on if the 
way she acts as a balance wheel for that group over 
in Roble is any indication.” 

“Dixie Calhoun?” 

“Yes.” 

“No!” A decisive voice cut through the general 
agreement. 

“Why, Rita! What in the world makes you so 
definitely opposed to letting her in?” Marjorie ex¬ 
claimed incredulously for rarely did Rita allow her¬ 
self to differ actively with the majority’s wishes. “She 
seems like a grand person, and lots of fun to have 
around.” 

“Perhaps,” Rita agreed grimly, “but you haven’t 
been hearing about her virtues every day.” She picked 


27/ 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

up a sheaf of telegrams from the table. “Yes, all of 
these, besides letters—at least one a day. All from 
her mother, describing how little Dixie has wanted 
to be an Alpha ever since she was so big. And I’m 
afraid to go near a telephone. She almost claimed that 
Alpha as the first word Dixie ever said, but I guess 
she realized that would be going a bit too far!” Rita 
disgustedly dropped the papers into a wastebasket. 

“But Rita, that’s not Dixie’s fault. She didn’t have 
anything to do with it,” Ginger averred. “I’m sure 
of it.” 

“Maybe she didn’t,” Rita retorted, “but that doesn’t 
help my nerves any! If she came in I’d be afraid to 
say ‘Boo’ for fear another deluge of protests would 
arrive saying I’m a brute for picking on a ‘child.’ 
Well, we just don’t want any children here.” 

“Now you’re being inconsistent.” Hazel protested. 
“After all, if you’re willing to concede that she per¬ 
sonally was not in any way responsible for the mes¬ 
sages, her case is similar to Geneve’s, only not nearly 
as bad.” 

“I don’t think we should let outsiders dictate to 
us,” Rita declared firmly. 

“But,” Marjorie pointed out, “if you hadn’t received 
any word at all about Dixie, we’d have voted her in. 
So, if we keep her out just to be mean about it, we’ll 
not only do her an injustice, but we’ll be hurting our¬ 
selves. She’s a good scout and we all like her. You 
do yourself, but you won’t admit it.” 

“I do like her, but all of that junk just irritated me,” 


272 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Rita confessed. “Oh, all right. Objection removed. 
She’s in!” 

“ ’Ray, she practices what she preaches,” Ginger 
waved a scarf over her head. 

“Quiet down. Hush.” Rita put her finger to her 
lips. 

“Helen Jennifer?” 

“Yes.” 

“Saxon Barnet?” 

“Yes.” 

“No.” 

The two answers, simultaneous and holding an equal 
amount of conviction, meant another argument, and 
Rita sighed. It was away past midnight. 

“All right, why the ‘No’?” 

“Well, Saxon has no background.” 

“Haven’t you enough of that with some of the rest. 
Wellman alone—” 

“They ought all—” 

“It takes more than background to rate the Cotillion 
and the Prom. And still rank high in class. That’s the 
kind of material Saxon is. Do you realize that she’s 
gorgeous? I know for a certainty that the Kappa’s 
have been trying for weeks to date her, but Joan’s 
the drag here.” 

“Oh, it isn’t just background.” 

“What is it then?” 

“I don’t know. Let’s pass her by for a while and 
go on with the rest.” 

“There’s only one more.” 


2 73 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Goodness, it’s hot in here! Can’t we open a win¬ 
dow?” Betty’s face was purple. 

“No, you can’t.” It was a Senior speaking. “Some 
of us remember the time Dorothy Elvin climbed that 
eucalyptus tree outside, and listened when we were 
making out our pledging list, and then told the Gam¬ 
ma’s. I’m not taking any chances.” 

“Well then, turn off the heater, or open the door.” 

“You can’t open the door. You’ll disturb Mrs. Mar¬ 
vin.” 

“The person who invented house mothers!” 

They were all very fond of Mrs. Marvin, but nerves 
were on edge. 

“Come on, hurry up, let’s make it snappy.” 

“All right, Mary Sullivan. Yes or no?” 

At one-thirty, they were finished with the list and 
several girls got up and stretched their numbed bodies. 

“Wait a minute. Not so fast. We haven’t decided 
about Saxon.” They dropped to their seats again. 

“Well, Dorothy, what about it? Just why don’t you 
like Saxon?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. She just fills me with antipathy.” 

“Antipathy!” one of the girls moaned. “At this time 
of night.” 

“Alice, why don’t you like her?” 

“Did you see her last quarter? Well, I haven’t for¬ 
gotten it, that’s all. She was a nine day’s wonder.” 

“And I heard something else. Blanche thought she 
saw her out one night after lockout hours.” 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Yes, well how does Blanche know unless she was 
out after lockout hours herself ?” 

“Well, girls,” Rita broke in with exasperation, “will 
you believe me, or won’t you, when I say that Joan 
Whitney and I have talked her over, and she’s one of 
the very nicest girls Joan has ever known, and I be¬ 
lieve you’ll think so too once you’ve taken her in. That 
girl is going to make her mark in the world some 
day.” 

Teresa yawned. “All right, girls. Let’s take her in. 
What do you say? After all, she is the grandest look¬ 
ing thing this Campus has seen in many a day. A few 
decent clothes, and—” 

“Oh, all right.” A couple of sleepy murmurs an¬ 
swered her. 

“Marjorie?” 

“Yes.” 

“Billy?” 

“Sure, I’m for her.” 

“Dorothy?” 

“I don’t think you’re right in taking her in.” 

“Oh, my goodness!” 

“Well, I don’t.” 

“Well then, why not?” Marjorie glared at her in 
desperation. 

“Well, I just feel an antip—” 

“Oh, look, Teresa’s fainted. Quick! Water!” 

There was a general scramble. A little air, drifting 
in through the open door, helped to revive her as much 


275 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

as the water. Teresa was picked up and laid on the 
hall bench, gasping. 

“Girls!” The president’s voice was desperate. “Come 
back here. What are we going to do? Peggy’s cry¬ 
ing.” 

Dorothy sat down again regally. She was a tall 
blond with a firm mouth. The girls had found that 
in house discussions she was generally opposed to the 
majority. 

“Now Dorothy,” Rita began. “You know you can’t 
keep a girl out unless you have something against her. 
What have you against her?” 

Dorothy looked more and more as if she were made 
of granite. “I think it’s enough to have a general ant—” 

“No—it—isn’t!” one of the girl almost shrieked. 
“And it’s after two, and I have to study for a botany 
quiz tonight before I can go to bed. Oughtn’t she be 
overruled ?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

One of the girls who was fond of Saxon began to 
cry hysterically. 

“Well,” Rita closed her eyes, “I guess the discus¬ 
sion’s over. I don’t see anything more to do. We have 
ten bids. Let me read them over. Now listen, every¬ 
one. Helen Jennifer, Joan Whitney, Dixie Calhoun—” 
She went on down the line and finished. “That’s all.” 

The girls rose to their feet. Dorothy cleared her 
throat. “I guess,” she remarked, “as long as you all 
want Saxon, I might as well let her come in. That’ll 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

make eleven,” and she stalked off to her room. The 
girls gasped at each other. Dorothy, having enforced 
her will and caused the world to tremble, had tired of 
the sport. 

The next night, the reports were in from Panhellenic. 
The Alpha’s received ten acceptances. Saxon’s was 
not among them. 



Chapter Thirteen 


A ll right, Janice, a drink of water, but no more 
stories.” 

Joan, midway between the kitchen and the dining 
room, paused at the foot of the stairs to call up to one 
of Saxon’s charges. 

“That child!” she sighed. “Three drinks of water 
in a half-hour and dozens of stories. If I have to keep 
this up, Billy’ll never be put to bed. How you ever 
manage to do all of this alone, Saxon, I fail to see. 
From now on, my duty is quite clear. It’s to spend 
every Thursday night with you at the domicile of 
Professor Traynor and wife.” She tucked the silence 
cloth hastily away, set a bowl of flowers on the din¬ 
ing table and hurried back to the kitchen. 

2j8 







JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Saxon sprinkled soap flakes into a pan of water, 
piled in dishes and set to work. The Traynors always 
seemed to have a great many soiled dishes, but there 
were four of them, and cooking special meals for chil¬ 
dren required extra pots and pans. But the more 
dishes there were, the greater was the Traynor’s need 
of her. Thursday was bridge club night, but they 
called on her on other evenings as well, and they paid 
generously. Saxon sang at her work, and every now 
and then she stooped to recover Billy’s ball and roll 
it toward him. 

Joan, back from delivering the glass of water to 
Janice, began to prepare Billy for bed. For a time, the 
two girls were silent. Then, “Saxon, I can’t help it. 
I see your point of view, but I’m just as disappointed 
anyway,” Joan complained. 

“I know. In a way, I am too. I’d have loved to 
have been a sorority sister of yours. And I was so 
pleased to be asked. And proud. Do the girls under¬ 
stand that?” Joan and Saxon were going over ground 
that had been rather thoroughly discussed earlier in 
the evening. 

“Oh, yes, and they realize that you accepted invita¬ 
tions because you didn’t know your own mind until 
the very last. But what annoys me is that you didn’t 
join. I still can’t see any real reason why you won’t.” 

“All right, Joan. There isn’t anything more I can 
say. But if I’d joined, you’d have realized before long 
that I didn’t belong there.” 


279 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Oh, rubbish!” As Don appeared in the open door¬ 
way leading from a vine-covered porch, Joan asked 
him, “Isn’t it silly for Saxon to say that she doesn’t 
belong in the Alpha House?” 

“I don’t know. I’d have to hear Saxon’s reasons, 
and I’m perfectly sure that they’re no business of 
mine.” 

At a shout from above, he stopped at the bottom 
of the stairway and called up, “Hey, what’s the trouble 
up there?” 

“Water. And tell me a thory.” 

“Oh, I’ll go.” Reluctantly, Saxon filled a glass and 
started upstairs, after depositing Billy on Don’s lap. 
“And it is your business, Don, if you’d care to hear 
it,” she called back. “Perhaps I can make you see my 
point of view.” 

“Somehow, I do see your point of view without your 
even telling me.” Don deposited Billy in Saxon’s arms 
on her return and took a dish cloth from the rack. 
“You’re too big a girl to be tied to one small group.” 

“Well, I like that!” Joan bristled with mock indig¬ 
nation. “Can’t you be a big girl if you’re joined to a 
small group?” 

“Certainly. But let me explain.” 

“No, let me.” Saxon leaned forward earnestly. “He 
means that I have seen a different kind of life than 
you have. I was never sheltered, never spared fear, 
or worry, or hard work. I have known it for myself, 


280 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

and for my family. I am conscious that the world is 
full of it. That is my outlook. For that reason I feel 
older, more experienced than most of you.” 

“But Saxon,” Joan protested, “I’m poor, too.” 

“I know, but you look back on a life of security. 
Your present circumstances are, I do hope, just an 
interlude. With me, it’s different. It’s not merely the 
lack of money but the effect it has had on my outlook 
on life. Being poor and alone a good part of the time, 
I read constantly. I’ve found out more by reading 
books than I ever did in a classroom. I’d read one ac¬ 
count of some historical figure or event, and then 
compare it with two or three more. Sometimes, a half 
dozen. In each case, I found that the books, though 
they were sincerely written and were what the author 
believed true, differed in viewpoint.” 

“Yes, I know,” Joan looked puzzled, “but what has 
history got to do with joining a sorority?” 

“Quite a bit in this particular case. You see, I’m 
going all the way back to the beginning in order to 
give you a clear picture of just why I happen to think 
the way I do. Well, to continue, I naturally began 
to wonder if current events were always just as my 
newspaper reported them. To find out, I subscribed 
to an opposition newspaper, and got an entirely dif¬ 
ferent slant on each question. Then I realized that 
there must be at least two sides to every question, and 
I began to look always for the side I didn’t know about. 


281 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

The more vital the issue, and the more the majority 
were all in favor of it, the harder I’d try to find the 
reasons why it should be rejected. Sometimes I’d even 
be in favor of it myself, and want it to succeed, but 
still I’d do my best to present arguments against it. 
Lots of people would think that I just wanted to argue. 
Others thought that I wanted to attract attention to 
myself, and still others that I was a fanatic or a radical. 
What they couldn’t understand was that by presenting 
the opposition’s point of view in as thorough a manner 
as I could, I was giving them the opportunity of elim¬ 
inating any flaws that I could discover. By making 
them defend their ideas, I aroused and solidified their 
beliefs. A great many times, including now, I’m very 
sorry that I just naturally don’t follow the crowd, but 
I wouldn’t change places with any one of them.” 

“But Saxon, that still isn’t any explanation of your 
refusal to come to live on the Row. After all, every¬ 
one has a right to his or her own opinion at all times. 
The girls up there differ on things, too.” Joan handed 
Don the last dish and wiped her hands. 

“I don’t know,” Don decided, “I think you’re right 
to a certain extent, Saxon, but why not modify your 
stand a bit? What’s the point in always being the dis¬ 
senter, even if it does do everyone a lot of good. It 
can’t be very pleasant for you all the time. And, you 
know, it’s rather up to you to look out for yourself. 
You can’t very well deliberately place yourself in a 
position that is apt to be uncomfortable, and expect 


282 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

others to appreciate your efforts. It’s asking too much 
of human nature.” 

“I’ve become well aware of that by now,” Saxon 
smiled. “The fact is though that I don’t want, or ex¬ 
pect, people to cheer at what I say, especially when 
I oppose them. I don’t do it for them, but for my¬ 
self, and if it’s helpful to anyone else also, that really 
makes me feel that I’ve accomplished something. To 
try to change, or to compromise with what I believe 
in, wouldn’t make me like the others anyway. It 
would merely destroy my philosophy without providing 
a substitute strong enough to keep me from falling 
into the rut of being another ‘sheep.’ Something in 
me makes me determined to lead, and leading the 
minority means hard, constant battling to offset the 
lack of numbers. Eventually, I hope to become in¬ 
fluential enough to become a leader of the majority 
and then, naturally, I’ll be very conservative for the 
weight of numbers will take up the slack. Then, I 
could join clubs like the sororities, and feel that I 
wouldn’t upset the members all the time. Right now, 
I would be a very disturbing influence, for I’d take 
the minority stand on practically every question, both 
to present that side, and to develop my own mind. I 
can do it in a large house, but in close quarters it 
would be too hard on the other girls. This way I can 
stay friends with all of them, and the other, with 
constant friction, would make me friendless. Oh, well, 
don’t you sec?” 


283 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Yes, I do, Saxon. Life has made you an individualist. 
And I agree that you’ll do better to pick congenial 
friends from here and there.” 

Saxon’s eyes were full of tears as she rose to carry 
Billy up to bed. She could not quite have explained 
why. Sympathy? Understanding? They had been 
rare in her life and she responded to them whole¬ 
heartedly. 

Don glanced at his watch. “Time you gals were 
leaving. Fifteen minutes late already. You can’t ex¬ 
pect to treat an escort like that.” 

“I know, Don, but the Traynor’s can’t always be 
back on the minute. There, that’s the car now. Isn’t 
it? Oh—oh, it’s Hugh. Well, if this isn’t a get-together. 
He told me this morning he might drop by on his way 
from Palo Alto. He’s afraid I’ll be tired! He’s apt to 
be more tired than I am.” 

Hugh’s appearance as he entered, seemed to fulfill 
Joan’s prophecy. His eyes were red-rimmed and his 
face was haggard. His smile, however, was as winning 
as ever, and his words as jolly. 

“Hi, Sis! Hello, Don. And Saxon, ah, most beauti¬ 
ful princess!” He bowed gravely and his eyelid flickered 
in Don’s direction, “Boy, can she make scrambled 
eggs what really am scrambled eggs,” Hugh pro¬ 
ceeded to confide in an exaggerated stage whisper. 

“Methinks yon cavalier makes light of my culinary 
efforts,” Saxon replied by pretending to ignore Hugh, 
and speaking to Joan. “Or perhaps he may, by flattery, 

284 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

be seeking to tempt me to prove my skill over yon¬ 
der hearth,” and she waved in the direction of the stove. 
At the discovery that her “hearth” was the latest model 
electric range the group began to laugh, their little 
skit forgotten for the moment. 

“Well, good evening, children.” Mrs. Traynor in 
the midst of the laughter had come unnoticed through 
the door. “I’m sorry I’m a bit late, Saxon, but the 
truth is, I didn’t expect to get home at all. My hus¬ 
band started to discuss the arrangement of electrical 
instruments when they are used to make a stage 
set of a laboratory look real and—” 

“And evidently I missed seeing Billy before he went 
to bed,” Dr. Traynor finished dolefully as he walked 
in. “Seems as though I scarcely ever get a chance to 
see him any more, with all the research work, and 
the new lab. and everything. Oh, and I almost for¬ 
got—” he reached deep into his topcoat pocket. With 
a triumphant air, he drew forth a tiny ocean liner 
perfect in every detail. “It really floats and has minia¬ 
ture motors in it,” he explained. “Billy will love it.” 

“Who’ll love it?” Mrs. Traynor questioned with a 
smile. 

“Billy will,” her husband defended his prize. “He 
ought to, I ordered it all the way from New York. 
Oh, of course, I’ll have to show him how it works, but 
then—” 

“Then, he can play with it if you don’t break it 
first,” Mrs. Traynor said, laughing. “Come every- 

28 5 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

body, here are some cookies, and maybe we still have 
some ginger ale left. I thought we did—let’s see, now 
—oh, yes, here it is. And it’s really cold too.” 

Sitting sipping the refreshing drink, Joan regarded 
Dr. Traynor with awe. Although she had passed him 
on the campus on numerous occasions, and had called 
at the Traynor home for Saxon several times, she 
had never happened to see him other than as a pro¬ 
fessor before. Could this grey-haired, scholarly look¬ 
ing man, who was contentedly munching pink and 
white cookies while he examined the little boat on 
his knee, be the country’s outstanding authority on 
electricity ? And his eyes seemed so gentle and 
friendly. Why, some of the boys had claimed that 
they positively saw and felt sparks shooting from 
them when any one fell down on his job. Yes, and 
this cheery voice was supposed to make chills run 
down one’s spine! 

“Br-r-r-r-r, br-r-r-r-r,” the telephone interrupted the 
exchange of pleasantries. 

Mrs. Traynor picked up the receiver, “Hello. Yes. 
Yes, he’s right here. Just one moment please. Here, 
dear, it’s for you. Someone at the lab.” 

Jumping up, Dr. Traynor hurriedly took the tele¬ 
phone from his wife. “Hello. Hello, Bill. Why, what 
happened? No. No! No! It won’t work that way. 
No, we’ve got to finish that by tomorrow night. Don’t 
do anything more till I get there. I’ll be right over. 
Goodbye.” 


286 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“That blamed generator broke down again! I’ll 
have to go over. Be back as soon as I can. Don’t wait 
up for me. Sorry.” Dr. Traynor started for the door 
picking up his hat and coat en route. 

“May I drop you off there,” Don offered. “My car’s 
right outside.” 

“Thanks, but my own’s still in front. It’ll be more 
convenient coming home afterwards.” He hardly 
paused in his rush to get to the scene of the difficulties. 

“Oh, I did hope that he’d get a little rest tonight,” 
Mrs. Traynor sighed. “He’s been overdoing this ex¬ 
perimental work, I’m afraid. He’ll have a nervous 
breakdown if it doesn’t let up soon.” She thoughtfully 
rescued the little ship that her husband had hastily 
tossed on the sofa at the telephone summons. 

“I think that we’d better be going now. It’s get¬ 
ting quite late and tomorrow’s another day.” Joan 
picked up her coat. 

“I’m glad you dropped in, and I hope that the next 
time we can have a little more time to talk.” 

Outside the foursome parted, Saxon going back with 
Don, and Joan joining Hugh in a car he had borrowed 
for the evening. 

“Gee, it’s grand out tonight. Just cool enough and 
look at the sky. Oh, see that light up there. It’s prob¬ 
ably the Air Mail. What a night for flying!” 

“Yes,” Joan decided, “you’ve been talking to Del 
quite a bit lately. If Stanford isn’t careful he’ll have 
the entire school sold on the idea that the only sensible 

287 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

way to travel is by air. He’ll probably want them to 
hold all the classes up there next.” 

“No, it wasn’t Del’s prompting, but just a thought,” 
Hugh explained thoughtfully. “It must be so cool and 
clean and peaceful up there. One could have time to 
think out a problem without getting tangled up with 
a lot of pros and cons and side issues, and have a bet¬ 
ter chance of finding the correct answer. If you had 
ever worked over a law case you’d know what I mean. 
Generally, the main dispute is sidetracked indefinitely, 
while both sides bicker over every technicality they 
can discover.” 

“I thought you had promised to give up that work, 
Hugh,” Joan reminded him. “You told me you would 
the day after the Big Game, and you’re still at it. You 
never broke a promise before.” 

“I don’t mean to now. I said that I’d stop as soon 
as possible, and I thought that the case we were work¬ 
ing on would be finishing in no time at all. Then 
there were delays, an adverse decision, an appeal to a 
higher court, a reversal and now the fight is really 
on. It’s going before the Supreme Court as a test 
case in a few more weeks, and after that—well, I’ll 
feel free to quit. And I won’t do anything more like it 
for a while. I’ll take sort of a vacation.” 

“A vacation!” Joan snorted. “Huh! If your idea 
of a vacation is keeping up with those courses you’re 
taking, I’d hate to see you really decide to work!” 

“It would seem like one, though,” Hugh grinned. 


288 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“But now, having been duly scolded and after being 
dutifully meek, I’ve got a bone to pick with you!” 

“Me?” Joan looked her surprise, “why I haven’t 
done anything except pledge the Alpha’s and that 
rates congratulations.” 

“Hey, I congratulated you once,” Hugh protested. 
“How many pretty speeches do you think I’m going to 
make in an evening?” 

“No more, I’m afraid,” Joan shook her head in exag¬ 
gerated sorrow. “No, I’m afraid I’m going to be taken 
to task for some of my many misdeeds. Let’s see,” she 
gravely began to check possibilities off on her fingers. 
“Didn’t put the cat out? No. We haven’t a cat at 
Roble. Almost late for lock-out? No, you wouldn’t 
know about that anyway. Let’s see—” 

“Oh, Joan, be a good child and pipe down a mo¬ 
ment,” Hugh groaned wearily. “This is a little bit im¬ 
portant. I don’t get a chance to see you very often, with 
all this work and your sorority rushing ’n’ everything. 
It’s about those plans for the houses you and Don 
were working on.” 

“The houses?” 

“Yes, I wanted to ask you about them some time ago 
but it slipped my mind. What ever happened to 
them?” 

“Don used them in class and now I have them. But 
I couldn’t figure out any way of using them so—” 
Joan shrugged her shoulders. “Well, perhaps some day 

289 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

we might be able to do something with them, and 
meanwhile they’ll be safe in my closet.” 

‘‘You can’t afford to do that,” Hugh shook his head. 

“Can’t afford to— Why, what do you mean, 
Hugh?” 

“Just that both Don and you put a great deal of time 
and energy into those designs, and you must learn 
that if you once start a project you have to see it 
through.” 

“But,” Joan protested, “they were only meant for 
classroom work, and now they’ve served their pur¬ 
pose.” 

“True,” her brother agreed, “but, as I understand 
it, there was quite a furor when they were displayed 
in class and the professor was very enthusiastic about 
them.” 

“He was,” Joan admitted, “in fact he gave us quite 
a few ideas that we managed to incorporate into the 
design. We finally succeeded in meeting the price 
limit by specifying the house as a furnished one, and 
then we worked out ways and means of buying it in 
the most economical way. I even listed everything 
—where it could be bought, color and price. But 
that’s as far as it went.” 

“That’s my basis for complaining,” Hugh exclaimed. 
“If it was actually good, and practical into the bargain, 
why drop it there?” 

“But what else could we do?” 

“I don’t exactly know, but—I’ll tell you what—let 


290 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

me have the plans for a little while and if they seem 
as good to me as you think they are, I’ll try to think 
up some way of turning them into money.” 

“Here we are. Wait, I’ll get them for you.” Joan 
opened the door of the car. “Oh, it’s really too late to¬ 
night. I’ll leave them up at your house tomorrow.” 

“O.K. G’night and be good!” Hugh waved cheerily 
and started down the driveway. 

“Good night, Hugh.” Joan watched the tail lights 
till the car turned the corner, and then started upstairs. 



Chapter Fourteen 


I t had become the custom for the freshmen to drop 
in now and then at the Alpha House for dinner. 
On Monday night there was Chapter Meeting. At 
other times there were always two or three girls ready 
for a chat or a walk to the Library. 

Joan loved dinner at the House. The long tables, 
candle lighted, threw a soft glow on the girls gath¬ 
ered around it, and cast long, pale shadows high 
against the green walls and the white linen curtains. 
The room had been especially lovely on the evening of 
the initiation banquet. Then, there had been a long, 
T-shaped table, banked with flowers in the sorority 
colors. And Rita had presided, as she did at all such 
affairs, with grace and dignity. 


292 











JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Strolling up the Row to dinner at the Alpha House, 
one evening just before spring vacation started, Bobby 
and Joan were greeted by two Alpha Sophomores. 
“Hi!” Bobby hailed them. “What are you doing head¬ 
ing East when it’s five minutes to dinner time?” 

“That’s what you think. But there’s really no hurry.” 
The girls turned to join them. “Dinner will be served 
if and when.” 

“You see,” Libby, the other sophomore went on air¬ 
ily, “there’s a battle going on in the back regions of 
the house, with possible bloodshed.” 

“Well, for Pete’s sake!” Joan exploded. “Hurry up 
and tell us. There’s a catch somewhere. What is it?” 

“Oh no, there isn’t.” Fay’s large grey eyes were seri¬ 
ous. “Two strong men are fighting for their all. Their 
homes, their positions, their very lives are in peril. 
And all of this drama, this deep-rooted struggle for 
survival of the fittest, is taking place—” 

“Yes,” Libby interrupted her with a solemn nod, “in 
our very own sorority kitchen.” 

“You remember,” Fay began the story, “how that 
Senior, Elise Hardy, was telling you the other night 
about Hing, the cook the Alphas had had for about 
ten years? That he was a tradition around the place? 
Whenever he was peevish he’d tie a white cloth around 
his head so that everybody would know it. But it 
appears he could make petits jours. How that man 
could make petits fours / And with the number of teas 
and things that the Alphas have— Well, a year ago he 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

went to China to be with his family, so the Alphas got 
themselves another cook named Loy. He’s pretty swell, 
too. He makes grand hors d’oeuvres. And you’ve no 
idea how a flock of superlative hors d’oeuvres will dress 
up a jaded meal. By the time a Sunday night supper 
gang have consumed a few hundred of Loy’s master¬ 
pieces, they don’t know or care if the rest of the meal 
is beans! 

“But last night Hing came back. He was tired of 
China and lonesome for his Alpha protegees. Loy was 
in his cabin in back of the house, but that didn’t make 
any difference. Hing moved in right on top of him! 
The cabin has been rocking on its foundations ever 
since. First, one will be ejected, and then the other. 
Hing got breakfast for us, and Loy, luncheon. But 
dinner is the real test of supremacy. One of three 
things can happen.” 

“Yes, and I know what they are,” Libby went on 
gleefully. “Either we’ll be deluged with petits fours 
and hors d’oeuvres, or there’ll be just one or the other. 
And by them we shall know the winner. Or Hing 
and Loy may decide life is too difficult and both go 
back to China!” The girls, ready for excitement, 
opened the wide screen door and joined the others 
who were waiting for the dinner bell. 

The quiet was suddenly broken by a crash and 
clatter from the kitchen mingled with howls of pain 
and rage. The girls, startled, stood still. In a moment 


294 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

the noise ceased and the kitchen door opened. Hing 
walked in, grinning broadly. 

“So solly,” he blandly explained, bowing deeply, 
“no dinner tonight. Me dlopped tlay. Tomollow me 
catchum fine dinner. Lotsum cakes. Goo’ nigh’.” 

“Hey! Look!” a girl called from the window, “does 
anyone see what I see ? Or am I seeing things.” 

Across the yard Loy was walking dejectedly, every 
now and then pausing to brush what looked sus¬ 
piciously like a combination of hors d’oeuvres and petits 
fours, from his hair and clothes! 

“Well, gals, now’s the time to show your pioneer 
spirit,” Rita declared oratorically. “Come and gaze 
out of the door. Before you lies one of the finest of all 
universities, with its beautiful buildings, broad acres, 
and fine roads. All , the territory is peopled by a 
friendly and kind-hearted tribe they call the Stanford- 
ites. Go forth, and seek thy dinners. And may my 
blessings be upon thee!” 

“And you? No, Rita we cannot leave you here to 
starve, alone and forgotten!” 

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Rita explained inno¬ 
cently, “there’s enough food in the icebox to do me for 
months— Help! ’ ’ 

Ducking the ensuing rush kitchenward, Joan walked 
out on the porch just in time to see Del’s car clatter 
up to the house and stop. He hopped out and ran to 
meet her. “Hi, Joan. We’ve got to go quickly. It 


295 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

will start to get dark in about another hour and a 
half so we have to hurry.” 

“Go where?” Joan asked laughing at his happy ex¬ 
citement. 

“The field, the flying field—over at Palo Alto,” he 
waved his hand vaguely in that direction. 

“Why the rush?” She good-humoredly got into the 
car which was moving almost at once. 

“I’m going to solo. All alone. Today. Now. But 
I’ve got to get there before dusk. They won’t let 
the little ships go up in the afternoon when the wind 
is blowing hard, and it’s either now or early in the 
morning. If we don’t get there in time, will you get up 
early and come to watch tomorrow?” he begged hope¬ 
fully. 

“What time would that be,” Joan asked cautiously. 

“About six, maybe. Or, a little before.” 

“Not tomorrow morning,” Joan catching a glimpse 
of the boyish disappointment in his eyes hesitated 
and finished her sentence. “I’ve got a breakfast date 
with Hugh. Oh, no, that’s the next day. Yes, if you 
want me to I’ll be up and rarin’ to go, but you’ll have 
to call for me at Roble.” 

“It’s a bargain!” Del’s high spirits returned, and 
winding their way across Palo Alto, they arrived at the 
little airport a few minutes later. 

“Where is it?” Joan surveyed the field seeking the 
plane. 

“Right over there.” 


296 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Looking in the direction Del indicated, Joan saw, 
not the big silver ship she had expected, but a little 
yellow monoplane that would almost have fitted 
into a garage. 

“Gee, it’s cute, Del. Why it’s only made of cloth!” 

“Of course!” Del began to laugh at her surprise. 
“Only it’s not made of cloth. It’s cloth over a metal 
frame. Just a second.” He walked over to meet the 
approaching instructor, “O.K. to go up now?” 

“I wondered where you had gotten to! You went 
home for a rooting section, huh?” 

“Well, you see—” Del looked a little sheepish. 

“Never mind, you should have seen me when I got 
my license to fly. I bought a pair of gold wings and 
stuck them on my coat, and my friends still claim I 
wouldn’t speak to them for weeks. I kinda thought 
everyone should stand at attention every time I passed. 
All right, she’s warm enough now. Take it easy and 
taxi out slowly. And for the luvva heaven don’t try 
to do tricks, even if the young lady is pretty! Circle 
once and come down! Got it?” 

“Yes! Once around and back.” Del tightened the 
safety belt. 

“O.K. Get going. Happy landings.” 

Shoving the throttle forward slowly, Del waved 
back to Joan, and then the little ship moved off the 
apron onto the field. Taxiing out slowly, he experi¬ 
mentally gunned the motor several times, and then 
turning, the plane started across the field picking up 

297 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

speed at every foot. Before it was halfway, the plane 
lifted gently, and Del was off in his first flight alone. 

Joan’s attention was distracted by the deep blast 
of an automobile’s horn and she looked toward the 
road. A roadster had just crossed the Bayshore High¬ 
way and was coming along the narrow road in a cloud 
of dust. The driver didn’t slow down until he was 
almost opposite the entrance. Then, the four wheels 
locked, were released seemingly in the same instant, 
the motor roared again and, with tires churning the 
gravel, the car shot through the gate to stop near 
where she was standing. 

“Hutch! What are you trying to do? That’s cer¬ 
tainly a unique way of coming into a driveway!” Joan 
was so surprised at finding the conservative President 
of the Delta’s at the wheel that she forgot her slight 
awe of him. 

“Joan, I stopped over at Roble, and they told me 
you’d gone out, probably to the Alpha’s so I chased 
up there. When I found that you’d left with Del, I 
decided I’d find you here so I came over in a hurry.” 

“What’s the matter? It’s something about Hugh. 
What is it?” All the fears that had been mounting 
these last months were crystallized now. 

“Yes, it is about Hugh. But I didn’t mean to scare 
you like that.” Joan’s face, white above her red suit, 
made Hutch hesitate. 

“Go on, Hutch. Don’t stop.” 

“Well,” his hand on her arm, he guided her and 

29S 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

the two walked over to his car, “you see, Hugh’s been 
overdoing it rather badly. A heavy course, and law 
work for a man in Palo Alto—” 

“Yes, I know about that,” Joan hurried him past 
that part of the story. 

“We’ve done our best to try to make him slow down, 
but Hugh is accustomed to managing his own affairs. 
He’s been complaining of his eyes and lately, just 
before examination week, they went back on him. 
Fortunately, he could take his exams without too much 
boning, and Butch and some of the others read to him 
whenever he needed that kind of help. Now he’s 
under a doctor’s care. They’ve just taken him up to 
San Francisco to the Stanford Hospital where he can 
be near a specialist and also have a complete rest.” 

“I must go right away. Why didn’t someone tell me 
before now? He shouldn’t have been left all alone.” 

Hutch smiled wryly. “Not quite alone. We’ve all 
been in quite a dither at the house, but Hugh made us 
promise not to tell you. He felt that the thing might 
clear up without ever having to worry you about it. As 
it is—” 

“Yes, as it is, what? Will he get better? Will he 
graduate?” 

The boy looked at the ground. “That’s it, Joan. 
We don’t know. No one can tell. They just—the doc¬ 
tor and the specialist—say we must wait and see what 
a week of rest and treatments will do.” 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Joan felt her eyes burning with unshed tears and her 
body shaken with emotion. She drew away from him. 
“I must hurry! I mustn’t waste a minute!” 

“Hop in, I’ll drive you up. We’ll make better time 
than the train or bus.” 

Just as they cut out onto the road, Joan dimly saw 
Del’s plane glide in toward the field. After bouncing 
awkwardly several times, it finally settled and rolled 
toward the hangar. 

“Oh, Hutch! I forgot all about Del!” 

“Don’t worry, he can find his way home. You can 
explain later. He’ll understand.” Hutch, grimly in¬ 
tent on weaving his way through the heavy traffic, 
relapsed into silence as they sped northward. 

# # # 

In the hospital with its air of calm, crisp efficiency, 
Joan’s last vestige of hope, that Hugh’s blindness might 
possibly be a mistake, vanished. These white clad fig¬ 
ures hurrying to and fro through the halls simply did 
not make mistakes like that. No, it was real, as real 
as the faint odor of antiseptics which pervaded the 
building. With leaden feet she left the elevator, and 
a moment later was ushered into a darkened room. 
Hugh lay motionless on the bed, his face drawn and 
white and a bandage over his eyes. Laughing eyes, blue 
eyes. His eyes! With a shudder, Joan pulled herself 
together and walked over to him. “Hello, Hugh. You 
should have told me before,” she spoke in little more 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

than a whisper, and her voice carried a tinge of af¬ 
fectionate reproach. 

Oh, hello Sis! When did you find out? I’m sorry 
to be such a bother, but coming up here was the doc’s 
idea.” Hugh attempted a smile without much success. 

Hutch just told me a little while ago, and then he 
drove me up. Is there anything I can get for you, 
Hugh?” 

“He’s a good egg. No, I’ve got everything I could 
possibly want. Tell you what though, you might drop 
Mom and Dad a line. Just tell them that I have to have 
a few treatments and that a week will probably clear 
everything up.” 

“Of course, Hugh. I’ll write them tonight. And it 
will be the truth, anyway.” “I hope,” she added fer¬ 
vently to herself. 

“Yes, Sis, that’s the truth. Make it casual.” Hugh 
brightened a bit. “You know, I always did have rather 
an idea that I’d like to spend a few days in one of these 
places. I’ll bet you two sodas to one, I rate a red¬ 
headed nurse! Another one will be on duty in a few 
more minutes and then I’ll see—” his voice hesitated 
and trailed off. 

“I’ll take that bet,” Joan cheerfully attempted to ig¬ 
nore the break. Gone was his sturdy independence, the 

self-confident smile-with a great effort, she choked 

back her sobs and went on steadily. 

“Tell you what! If they don’t give you a nurse with 
rusty tresses, we’ll send one up from Stanford. If we 



JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

can’t find one on the Farm I’ll ask Rita to start a house 
to house search. We’ll mobilize the whole campus if 
necessary.” Joan’s imagination strove to meet the oc¬ 
casion. Perhaps, she might be able to arouse a spark 
of Hugh’s former cheerfulness? His answer was her 
reward. 

“I can imagine that professor of mine in law class 
ringing door bells and asking, ‘Madam, is there a red¬ 
head in your house?”’ Hugh chuckled softly. “I’ll 
bet that’s the nurse now,” he added as someone stopped 
outside the door. “Here’s one time you get stuck for 
the Cellar check!” 

“You win, but something tells me I’m getting 
gypped,” Joan protested, raising a warning finger to 
her lips at the elderly, dark-haired nurse who entered. 
“Yes, she’s a red-head, but all bets are off if I find it’s 
been dyed!” the last was a quick confidential whisper. 

“I think he’d better get a little rest now,” the nurse 
gently pointed out. “He’s had quite a strenuous day—” 

“Oh—I’m sorry—but I just found out.” 

“Tell the gang down there that I’ll be back soon 
—and for the luvva Pete tell ’em to stop sending me 
flowers!” 

“All right, and I’ll run along now. You do need 
some rest. Even when I’m not here, you know, I’ll be 
thinking of you. And I’ll telephone your nurse every 
day. She’ll tell me what a bad patient you are, and 
how much you annoy her. If you want anything have 
her telephone down to me. ’Bye now.” 


302 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

A firm grip of his hand and she was gone. Sepa¬ 
rated, despair settled on both. All the money that 
Hugh had sacrificed his strength and eyesight to earn, 
would be gone, long before his hospital and doctor’s 
bills were paid. And more than that, his career, his 
very life, might be ruined! He had no assurance that 
his sight would be restored sufficiently to allow him 
to carry on his studies. In what possible way could 
a man earn a living without the full use of his eyes? 

# # # 

Back at Stanford, Joan decided to see Professor Stan- 
dish immediately. The English professor had spoken 
to her a short time before about a manuscript he was 
preparing for fall publication which needed to be re¬ 
copied. Working would at least divert her mind from 
Hugh for a little while, and the money would be even 
more important now. 

After a hasty telephone call to make sure that Dr. 
Standish could see her, Joan walked slowly across the 
campus to his home, unaware of the quiet, star-lit 
night. Mrs. Standish greeted her at the door and, taking 
her wraps, led Joan into the study. There, Dr. Standish 
sat so deeply engrossed in his work that he was unaware 
of their presence until his wife spoke. “This is Miss 
Whitney, dear. She telephoned a few minutes ago 
about your manuscript.” 

“Oh, yes. Good evening, Miss Whitney. I didn’t 
see you come in. Won’t you sit down?” Dr. Standish 


303 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

rising, nodded ruefully toward the piles of papers and 
manuscript on his desk and sighed, “It’s reached the 
stage where even I am getting a little bewildered. 
There’s so much to do, and so little time in which to 
do it.” 

“Is that all of it?” Joan asked, a little astonished at 
the number and variety of the papers before them. 

“Well, not quite. The first section is separate, and 
I’ve got that in a drawer all tied together so that it 
won’t get mixed up again.” Reaching into his desk the 
professor produced another sheaf about two inches 
thick. 

“You see it’s going to be a two-volume edition of se¬ 
lections from American literature, both prose and po¬ 
etry, together with a critical analysis of each selection 
and explanatory notes suitable for Freshman use. Prac¬ 
tically all of the work has been finished except to put 
it in presentable form for my publishers.” 

“Practically all the work—oh, goodness!” Joan 
thought, remembering a few themes she had untangled 
as she had re-typed them for several students. “If he 
only knew. His headaches have just begun.” Smiling 
reassurance, she calmly surveyed the formidable task, 
“Don’t worry, it won’t take long to get it all straight¬ 
ened out.” 

“Do you really think you can do it?” Dr. Standish 
smiled hopefully at her for a moment. “Of course, I’ll 
show you what has to be done. You see, there’s quite a 
bit written in long-hand that needs to be typewritten 
and inserted in the proper places.” 

304 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“It will take a little while, but it won’t be impossible 
to get it out on time. You spoke of wanting it finished 
inside of a month?” 

“Yes, the publishers are writing me daily asking for 
it, and I’ve promised them to have it in the mail by the 
end of the month.” 

“Well, then, there’s no time like the present to start 
work,” Joan proposed in a matter of fact tone, though 
inside she was beginning to doubt if it ever could be 
finished. 

“Fine, if you can spare the time this evening.” Pro¬ 
fessor Standish put his glasses back on, and, running his 
hand through his grey-flecked hair, he studied one sec¬ 
tion of manuscript. “Now in this second section—” 
Lost to everything except the work at hand, he out¬ 
lined the work in short, concise sentences while Joan 
made detailed notes in shorthand. An hour passed— 
and another—it was almost ten o’clock when Professor 
Standish finally glanced at his watch. “I didn’t realize 
that it was that late,” he smiled apologetically, “I think 
we’ve done quite enough for one night. They’ll be 
wondering what’s become of you over at Roble.” 

“I enjoyed it,” Joan assured him, “and if you don’t 
mind I’ll take these two sections back with me. Then, 
if I have any spare time tomorrow, I can start work 
without bothering you again.” 

That night, studying the manuscript, Joan marveled 
at her audacity in accepting the job. Part of the selec¬ 
tions were just as they had been clipped out of other 
books of varying size and type, others were from maga- 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

zines, a few had been typewritten, still several were 
from newspapers and all had pencilled, or typewritten, 
notations attached to them. All of this had to be or¬ 
ganized according to Professor Standish’s plan and out¬ 
line, in such a fashion that the editors and printers 
would have no difficulty in following the continuity. 
It was going to be hard, tedious drudgery, but it could 
be done. She drew a deep breath and gamely started the 
task. 

During the next few days, Joan discovered what 
serious work was like. Before breakfast she was usu¬ 
ally up poring over the papers, and after class in the 
afternoon she again settled down and worked most 
of the evening. The intervals were broken only by 
brief intervals for intensive “cramming periods” in 
which she attempted to do two hours’ work in one 
for class preparation. Typing, mounting printed pages 
on paper, separating, numbering—the pages passed 
through her hands in a steady stream, but always there 
were more. The job began to fascinate her with its like¬ 
ness to perpetual motion, but she consoled herself with 
the thought that eventually she would finish it, if her 
patience wasn’t exhausted meanwhile. 

On Friday, Hutch stopped at Roble for her, and 
they drove to San Francisco again. 

“At Hugh’s suggestion, we’ve been holding his mail,” 
he told Joan. “However, his nurse telephoned me last 
night that he wants you to read it to him today. Prob¬ 
ably there’s nothing important in it, but even a friendly 

306 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

letter from home was supposed to be bad for him to 
date, and he hasn’t seemed insistent.” He handed her 
a small bundle of letters. 

“I wonder if the bandage is still on his eyes?” 

“It was yesterday, the nurse told me.” 

“I didn’t ask her. I guess I’m afraid of the truth.” 

“Thoughts are queer things, Joan. Don’t carry that 
attitude around with you. Let’s really believe he’ll be 
the old Hugh.” 

Joan glanced up at him. “I will, Hutch. I’ll stop 
glooming.” 

Hugh was propped high against the pillows, and, 
though the bandage was still in place over his eyes 
when Joan entered the room, he seemed more like 
his old self as he smiled at her greeting. Hutch, after 
a greeting and a few minutes of house and campus 
news, left them, and Joan untied the packet of letters. 

“Well, this looks pretty important to start with,” she 
commented. “It offers an organ as a fitting touch to 
your home for only five thousand dollars. Next is a 
letter from home.” 

“Save it till last, Joan. Just before you go.” 

“Well, how about subscribing to three magazines 
at reduced rates?” 

“Might as well subscribe to the moon. Go on.” 

“Only two more. One is from the Bangs boys, and 
one from your law firm in Palo Alto.” 

“Mr. Wilson first. It must be he, for no one else 
there would write.” 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Joan read the heartening little note, and then a funny 
letter from the three young Bangs. At last, she tore 
open the one from home. 

Dear Son, 

Joan tells us that you have run into a bit of hard luck- 
We feel that rest will be the finest thing for you, Hugh, 
and want you to stay in the hospital as long as it bene¬ 
fits you. You will probably feel easier to know that 
Mr. Bishop has insisted on making me a loan, without 
interest, to see you through. I have accepted it, as my 
boy's health is one of the most important things in the 
world to me. If you must lose a quarter in college, don't 
worry. You can make it up later. Jf you want to see 
us, let us know. Joan inferred that there was no cause 
for anxiety. Your mother sends her love. 

Your affectionate, 

Dad 

Joan dropped the letter and spread her arms above 
her head. “Oh, Hugh, isn’t it wonderful! Now, you 
can rest and rest and rest. And that’s one worry com¬ 
pletely gone.” 

Hugh managed a real grin this time, and when Joan 
was leaving they both knew somehow that the situa¬ 
tion would not be so impossible after all. 

# # # 

During the next three weeks Joan interspersed her 
work on the manuscript and her studies with frequent 

30$ 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

visits to see Hugh. His sight, while a long way from 
normal, was improving slowly and steadily. Walking 
along the hospital corridor shortly before Hugh was 
scheduled to return to Stanford, Joan was startled to 
see Don emerging from Hugh’s room gaily humming 
the latest tune. “Why Don! I didn’t expect to see 
you here today.” 

“Oh, hello Joan. I’m pretty apt to turn up practically 
anywhere, but I just had a few things I wanted to talk 
over with Hugh so I decided to run up for a while. 
You were out when I called Roble or we might have 
come up together.” 

“I came up with Hutch. He’s gone across town on 
business and he said he’d stop back for me in about 
an hour.” 

“Well, in that case, I think I’ll run along. I’ve got a 
pile of things to do, and I’ve got to get back to the 
campus before dinner. ’Bye, I’ll see you later.” Don 
hurried off, and Joan, with a puzzled look after him 
turned to the door. “Why didn’t Don tell me he was 
coming up here? And he seems to have been here 
before. I wonder why Hugh never mentioned it?” 
But Hugh proved a decidedly unsatisfactory source of 
information when she casually asked about Don and 
his visits. “Just ‘man-talk,’ ” Hugh explained airily, “a 
mere girl wouldn’t understand!” He grinned com¬ 
placently as she sputtered incoherently. “I knew that 
would stir you up.” 

A few days later, as the school was settling into seri- 


3°9 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

ous spring quarter work, a car slipped through the 
gates onto the campus, and rolled quietly up to the 
Row to a stop before the Delta House. Hugh had 
arrived back on the Farm. In celebration, the Deltas 
held open house for three successive nights and enter¬ 
tained most of the undergraduates, as they arrived in a 
continuous stream to pay their respects. 

Although his eyes were scarcely better, Hugh was 
allowed to attend classes, to which he wore large dark 
glasses. His friends read to him from their notes, and 
from group discussion and comment he missed little 
that went on in his courses. Directed research was 
out of the question, but he had, for years, been col¬ 
lecting material about a certain type of problem which 
particularly interested him. Now, his efforts went 
into arranging this material in a concise form. His 
instructor aided him in conferences, and Joan worked 
long hours typing his thesis. 

With Professor Standish’s manuscript finally fin¬ 
ished, Joan relaxed slightly and enjoyed life a bit more. 
Hugh was recovering, the worrying over finances had 
been eased by the loan her father had received, her 
academic standing was above average according to the 
Bawl-Out, and oh, it was such a nice day! She stretched 
out luxuriously in the soft grass and looked over at 
Bobby who was intent on a pair of robins who were 
building a nest in a nearby tree. 

“Nothing to worry about for a while,” she mur¬ 
mured lazily. 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“No, nothing except the set of final exams that will 
be here shortly,” Bobby returned darkly. 

“Oh, don’t take the joy out of life so soon. Let’s 
wait and worry about them when they actually get 
here.” 

“Me, I can do both,” Bobby grinned complacently. 
“Besides, if I get you to start really worrying, why 
then, you’ll eventually stir me up and I’ll eventually 
begin to cram before it’s too late. Left to myself, I’d 
undoubtedly get to work sooner or later, but methinks 
it might be too much later.” 

“Bobby?” 

“Yes?” she helpfully attempted to toss some tiny 
twigs nearer the two birds. 

“Bobby, do you think I’m wasting my time ? I mean 
I’ve been here almost a year now and I haven’t exactly 
set the world on fire. And the worst part is I don’t 
exactly know where to concentrate my energy.” 

“Of course not, Joan. Be reasonable. If you started 
in business in a small town, you wouldn’t expect to 
be mayor by the end of the first year, would you?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“Well, Stanford is just that, a city of three thousand 
people all living together, learning, trying to get along 
with each other and with themselves, and each trying 
to lead in at least one activity. Besides, competition 
here is much keener than you’d find in any small town 
of similar size because this is a picked group from all 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

over the United States with far more than average 
ability.” 

“But if I don’t find out what I want to do, how can 
I do it?” Joan puzzled. 

“You really have something there, Joan,” Bobby 
agreed. “But the only way you can solve that little 
riddle is to just wait until you decide, and hurry it up 
as much as possible by experimenting with different 
courses. And, by the way, have you ever thought of 
being an actress? I mean as a career?” 

“Yes, but I didn’t think very much of the idea from 
all viewpoints. Being an actress has lots of advantages, 
but it also has certain natural disadvantages like being 
constantly on the move from place to place, and leading 
a life just the opposite of that of the ordinary person. 
Working at night instead of in the daytime might be 
all right for some people, but I don’t think I’d like 
it. And, it’s not as easy as it looks, from all accounts 
I’ve ever heard or read. It takes as much, or perhaps 
more work to become a successful actress, as it does 
in any other profession, and I don’t think the returns 
are as great over a period of time.” 

“Well, something else will come to mind. Don’t 
bother too much with it right now. Anyway, the party 
at the Alpha House is a lot more important at the mo¬ 
ment. What are you going to wear?” 

“Haven’t decided yet. You’re jumping a little ahead 
of yourself. Remember we have to decorate the place 
first.” 

312 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Which reminds me. We’ve got to ask Butch to 
get some more blossoms for me,” Bobby rising, brushed 
loose grass from her skirt. “Come on, and walk back 
with me. We’ve got to find him before we can ask him 
to help us.” 

“All right, but give me your hand, or else I stay here. 
Getting up by myself is just too much effort.” 

“If I have to, I have to,” Bobby groaned holding out 
her hand and then, “look out Joan there’s a spider! 
No, on the grass beside you.” 

“Where? Oh where?” Joan hastily scrambled to her 
feet and carefully scanned the grass. “Where is it?” she 
turned to Bobby. 

“I guess it just went away suddenly,” Bobby gestured 
vaguely with a trace of a smile. “I was just practicing 
the theory of mind over matter.” 

“Oh, Bobby!” Joan stamped her foot, and then 
grinned. “Just for that I’m going to tell Butch about 
that big box of cookies you have hidden away. He’ll 
help make short work of them!” 

“No fair,” Bobby protested. “By the way, I just re¬ 
membered I saw a friend of yours this afternoon.” 

“Who?” 

“Mister—let’s see—Don’s father—Mr. Bishop.” 

“You saw Mr. Bishop? Where?” 

“He was crossing the Quad with Don just as I was 
coming back from the Library.” 

“I wonder why he didn’t drop in and say ‘Hello’?” 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Joan thoughtfully picked up her books. “I wonder 
why he came down now?” she asked herself. “Mr. 
Bishop never came here before except on special occa¬ 
sions. I wonder—” 


3*4 



Chapter Fifteen 


G eneve gave herself a last critical glance in the 
mirror. “Zowie!” She swirled experimentally, 
watching her reflection gleefully. “That does it! We’ll 
really make the campus sit up and take notice this 
time. With sound effects too,” she added complacently 
to herself as, circling her room with what she hoped 
was a regal air, she listened to the rustle of the long 
full skirt. “Oh, hang it all, why did you have to 
pop up just when I’d almost forgotten you?” she 
addressed the slip of paper on her bureau severely. “It 
will probably take me about ninety years, but I’ll get 
you paid eventually,” she promised the bill for the 
dress, as she slipped it into a drawer. “Anyway, it’s 
worth it. Oh, I’ll be late. Thank goodness I didn’t 


3 J 5 











JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

get on the Alpha’s decorating committee. I never 
would have gotten ready then. Now the coat and 
away we go.” She hummed the latest tune happily. 

“Goodness—” Geneve’s face lost its gaiety, as she 
gazed in dismay at her lapin jacket. Carefully she 
turned up the collar and, pivoting, studied her reflec¬ 
tion. The jacket simply ruined the effect of sophisti¬ 
cation which the simplicity of the well designed frock 
conveyed so aptly. It was distinctively naive—eco¬ 
nomical. “It just isn’t right!” Geneve told herself im¬ 
patiently. “But, I guess it will have to do just this 
once.” Rebelliously she snatched up her gloves and 
bag, and hurried down the hall. 

The intervening doors were closed, but Joan’s, as 
she passed, stood ajar a few inches with the light still 
on. “She must have left in a hurry,” Geneve reflected. 
“I wonder why she didn’t wear her coat?” The 
beaver chubby was carelessly draped over a chair 
within view of her fleeting glance. “I’ll have to hurry 
myself. If I keep Babe waiting much longer he’ll 
never forgive me. I shouldn’t have fussed so much 
with the jacket—” Suddenly, Geneve stopped, turned 
on the stairs and hesitated, then ran lightly back up 
the hall and slipped into Joan’s room. With one hand 
on the chubby she paused. “I’m not going to hurt it. 
I’m just borrowing it for the evening. Joan has often 
loaned the coat, so surely she wouldn’t have minded 
if I’d thought to ask her earlier. Or would she? Per- 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

haps, she’ll never even notice it has been borrowed— 
especially, if I bring it back early.” Resolutely, Geneve 
pushed away the remembrance of her past disloyalty, 
and ran back to put her own coat away. A moment 
later, hurrying down the stairs, Geneve realized that 
she was now definitely late! 

# # # 

Meanwhile, at the Alpha house, the girls on the deco¬ 
rating committee in smocks or shorts, tired and mussed, 
crawled down off their ladders or sat back on their 
heels as the waiters appeared with platters of sand¬ 
wiches and cups of coffee. As they ate, sitting cross- 
legged on the floor, they leaned back and surveyed 
their handiwork. There wasn’t any particular motif, 
just great bunches of fruit blossoms catching the light 
in a pale mist, and snapdragons banked against stately 
rows of delphinium. Later, the little Chinese waitresses 
hired for the evening would add one more vivid note 
of color with their soft brocaded dresses and embroi¬ 
dered slippers. 

“Well, girls,” Rita smiled upon the tired freshmen, 
“it’s perfect. Just perfect! And to think that you went 
out and found all this gorgeousness by yourselves! 
People were certainly generous to let you beg and 
borrow from their gardens. Dixie, your Santa Clara 
Valley orchard won’t have quite as much fruit this 
year with all these blossoms gone.” 


3 J 7 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Bobby looked at Joan meaningly and sighed, “I 
hope it’s beg and borrow. When I asked Butch if 
he knew of any delphinium in the Delta garden going 
to waste he said, ‘No, but it is going to waste in other 
places.’ Do you suppose he meant anything sinister 
by that? When I discovered armfuls of them on the 
porch this morning, I began to wonder.” 

“Well, it won’t do any good to worry now,” Joan 
rose stiffly to her feet. “Ask him this evening if you 
like. Or, isn’t there a saying about ‘Never look a 
gift horse in the mouth—or face—or something’?” 

“Right, quite right. I asked him for them and I 
got them. I dare say they were growing somewhere in 
an obscure corner with no one to enjoy them. Come 
on, or you’ll lose your turn for a bath. I signed just 
after Selma, and she went upstairs ten minutes ago.” 

In Gay’s room on the third floor, Joan, fresh and 
rested, shook out the folds of her dress. Then she 
hastily pulled down the hall ironing board and was 
reaching for the iron when Dixie hailed her from 
the top of the stairs. 

“Joan, are you dressed? Neither am I. Everyone 
else is, and those two big branches between the doors 
have come loose and are just hanging sort of upside 
down.” 

As she talked, Joan had slipped on a tweed coat that 
lay handy and scampered down the two flights after 
Dixie, drawing it together as she went. 

On the broad first landing, three steps above the 

3*8 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

dance floor, the orchestra was already tuning up. In 
the dining room, little slant-eyed Chinese girls, slender 
in their straight tunics, were bringing in punch bowls 
and glasses. Bobby appearing from the den, made a 
short run and slid gracefully and accurately toward the 
swinging kitchen door, her striped taffeta skirt billow¬ 
ing stiffly behind her. Joan and Dixie set to work with 
a will. In a minute, they were joined by the musicians 
who, helping and hindering, finally got the branches 
into position again without too much damage to the 
creamy white trim. 

Almost at once, the boys began to come. Joan, flee¬ 
ing upstairs, caught sight of the first white jacket just 
as she turned the corner. “We’re going to be late,” 
she whispered back to Dixie, passing the first group 
of girls on their way down. “I’ll have to tidy up, and 
I’ve still my dress to press.” 

“So have I. Leave the iron on for me when you 
finish, will you?” 

The first dance had started when Joan finally reached 
the dance floor and her partner. 

“Joan, you look grand, but a bit tired.” Del’s eyes 
were solicitous. “Shall we sit out the rest of this one 
while you get your breath? I heard from Butch that 
you were chairman of the committee that turned out 
the decorations. Congratulations. You’ll have the rest 
of the houses taking notes.” 

“Taking notes? What do you mean?” 

“Why didn’t you know ? When any house turns out 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

something really good, you’ll see the same idea over 
and over again. First sorority dance I went to, they 
had lattices on the walls painted black and twined with 
red roses. It was a grand effect, but after that all kinds 
of lattices sprung up everywhere.” 

“Oh, but there’s nothing distinctive about this. It 
was work, though, and I would like to catch my 
breath.” 

The broad terrace was enclosed with canvas, and 
was lined with couches and hammocks. Joan sank 
gratefully into one of these for a moment and closed 
her eyes. The music and the murmur of voices drifted 
out to them with snatches of laughter. Almost at once, 
she opened her eyes, jumped to her feet, “Come on, 
let’s finish it out here. It’s so cool and quiet and I 
can rest that way.” 

Across the Row in the Zeta dining room, Geneve 
glanced at her watch as she circled slowly under the 
orange lights. Ten-fifteen. The music stopped on a 
half-beat and she took her partner’s arm. 

“Let’s find Babe. Do you mind? He and I are due 
at the Alpha house for supper in fifteen minutes. Oh, 
there he is.” With a wave at him and a signal, she 
turned to the stairs, reached the dressing room, and, 
hurriedly powdering her nose, slipped into the chubby. 
She had it all planned. She would slip the coat off 
carelessly just before entering the Alpha house, then 
excuse herself for an instant and run quickly up to 
the third floor landing. There was a window seat there 


320 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

into which she could drop the coat, retrieving it later 
when it was time to go. It would be easy to watch 
Joan and leave just a few minutes before she. She felt 
genuinely guilty now about having borrowed one of 
Joan’s possessions without having asked permission. 

When Geneve entered, everyone was already finding 
seats for the supper dance. In the confusion, it was 
easier to carry out her plan than she had expected. In 
a moment she was downstairs again with Babe, look¬ 
ing about for a group to join. 

All the chairs seemed to be taken and everyone was 
interested in somebody else. For a moment she hesi¬ 
tated, then Butch, just off to one side hailed her. “Hi, 
Geneve! Hi, Babe! Get a couple of cushions and 
come sit.” Bobby tried to nudge him, but it was too 
late. Geneve with obvious relief, sank down on one 
of the steps near the group. It was at once evident 
to her that Butch, aside from being guileless and 
friendly, had hailed her with a motive. She had 
evidently interrupted a conversation which Rita, Joan 
and Bobby were directing at him. After a moment of 
abstracted silence, Rita went on— 

“So, ever since they built the new house, she’d been 
wondering what she’d have under that tree. You see, 
the house and the terrace and everything was sort 
of planned around that oak tree. It’s the first thing 
you really notice when you pass. The lawn slopes 
up and there it is. And she wanted just one big splash 
of color under the tree. Petunias wouldn’t do. Too 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

low, and hollyhocks are too high. So, she decided on 
delphinium.” 

To Geneve, this monologue was quite pointless and 
too botanical, but it was followed by another equally 
unintelligible sentence. 

“Well, all I can say is,” Butch suggested, “I’ll go 
right in and apologize. Maybe if I bought some paper 
ones in the Emporium basement and twisted ’em on 
sticks, no one would know the difference. A friend of 
Dad’s in Vancouver stuck paper flowers on his rose 
bushes once. He almost got a prize for the best 
garden, too, except that some one noticed the Lady 
Washington label on a bush of American Beauties.” 

“Will you hush!” Bobby dealt him a stinging glance. 
“Hush, and go away.” 

“No, don’t you mind her, Butch,” Joan reached out 
a restraining hand. “If it hadn’t been for me, it would 
never have happened. Butch and I will go together.”' 

Geneve, not understanding the conversation, was 
only mildly interested. Her eyes, taking in the couples 
scattered about the big rooms, rated her chances for the 
second half of the party. Her partner, however, could 
wait no longer. 

“Say, what on earth is this all about ? First we hear 
about a pretty garden, and then what sounds like a 
major tragedy. It doesn’t make sense!” 

“Of course it doesn’t. You see if it does.” Bobby was 
glad of a chance to recount the matter. “Joan asks 
Butch to please find her some delphinium for the 


322 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

decorations tonight, and he said that it would be no 
trouble at all. So, in the dead of night, he and some 
other oafs from the Delta House, went up faculty hill 
and snitched all the delphinium from under the oak 
tree in Professor Free’s front yard. All of it! Joan 
found it on the terrace this morning and, of course, 
not suspecting anything, decorated the place with it. 
There it is, banked up in front of the fireplace over 
there, and in front of the French doors and on the 
first landing. Then, to top off our grief, Mrs. Free is 
one of the patronesses tonight. She came in and we 
tripped smilingly to meet her only to be greeted with 
an agonized shriek, ‘My delphinium! They are! I’d 
know them anywhere.’ And that’s that. We don’t 
know what to do about it, but Rita suggested that this 
might be a good time to talk it over.” 

“Yes, but the trouble is, there really isn’t anything 
that one can do. It’s all so—” 

The sentence hung in mid-air as the group turned 
toward the kitchen. Through the swinging door came 
the little Chinese girls running helter, skelter for the 
front door and followed by the cook shouting, “Fire!” 

At once, there was a rush of feet and pandemonium. 
Everyone was trying to keep cool and help. And each 
was getting in the other’s way. Del called the fire de¬ 
partment, while shouts of, “Where is it?” filled the air. 
In the halls, the groups heading for the stairs in an 
attempt to salvage their belongings, were broken up 
abruptly by the arrival of firemen trailing yards of 


3 2 3 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

hose. Boys were already throwing clothes and bed¬ 
ding over the banisters and out of windows. From 
the opened doors smoke poured down, sending un¬ 
wary spectators and the remaining students scur¬ 
rying for safety with smarting eyes and spasms of 
coughing. 

Geneve, after a startled moment, sprang to her feet 
and rushed for the stairs. The coat! Joan’s coat! She 
must save it. Where was the fire ? Where was it ? No 
one knew. She pushed against the groups crowding 
the stairway, then turned back and started for the 
servants’ stairs at the back of the house. Opening the 
back entry hall, she was met by a stifling blast of 
smoke and heat. Frantically, half-sobbing now, she 
made her way to the front staircase again, pushed her 
way up with the firemen, and slipped into the upstairs 
hall. Past wardrobe trunks with boys and girls ex¬ 
citedly tugging at them, past bureaus and studio 
couches, she ran to the foot of the third floor stairs. 
There she found a massive fireman determinedly 
standing guard, his arms spread to either wall effec¬ 
tively blocking the way. 

“You can’t go up there, Miss. Fire started up there. 
You’d be trapped.” 

“But I must! Please! I must. Just to the landing 
for a moment. Please!” She begged wildly and then 
attempted to brush by. 

“No, Miss! You can’t go up there. You’d never 
reach the top of the stairs let alone find anything. 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Don’t be foolish. No possession is worth your life!” 
He took her by the arm as a thick black eddy of 
smoke rolled down the stairs and set them both 
to coughing. “Sorry, little lady. Make way here 
for the hose. If there’s anything up there now, it’ll 
probably still be there tomorrow. We’ll get this under 
control pretty soon now.” 

One of the girls, passing, shoved an armful of books 
at Geneve and another called back over her shoulder 
as she stopped down the hall, “Come on, Geneve, we’ve 
got to get out right away. It’s not safe to stay. What’s 
the matter? Come on!” 

In desperation, Geneve pulled away, took one look at 
the stair opening disgorging smoke, flames, and water, 
then turned and followed the others. It was no use. 
The coat was gone and she never could replace it or 
explain her conduct. Dully, Geneve realized that cir¬ 
cumstances had turned her selfish act into one with 
consequences which could not be avoided. 

Later, much later, when the last car loaded with the 
girls’ belongings had driven away, and the Alphas had 
dispersed to other houses to spend the night, Babe and 
Geneve drove slowly down the Row. 

“Well, I don’t blame you for being excited, Geneve. 
The Alphas certainly put on a party tonight that the 
Campus won’t forget in a hurry.” Babe stretched out, 
relaxed and comfortable in the big sedan ready to 
reminisce. “Funniest thing I saw tonight was Hank 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Seeley leaning out of the second story window and 
throwing a mirror down. Then he got so excited that 
he ran down the steps carrying some sofa cushions! 
And all the little Chinese girls were running so fast 
that they left their slippers scattered over the front 
lawn.” 

Geneve tried to laugh but it was no use. Everything 
seemed to be spinning madly before her eyes. Closing 
them for a few moments helped somewhat, and 
gradually the sensation wore off. 

“I wonder if they’ll save the third floor?” 

“Not a chance. I took a peek just before I left 
and it’s completely gutted. There were just a few 
rooms up there, you know. It’s completely burned, 
right down to the second floor, stairway and all. Tough 
luck! But, it’s good that it’s so near vacation. They’ll 
have a chance to rebuild it before fall.” 

“Tough luck! Just how tough, I hope you never 
know,” Geneve thought, miserably. “But I guess he 
will. They all will,” she sighed disconsolately. 

Back in Roble, after the excitement had finally died 
away, Joan dropped her bag on the table, flopped into 
a chair and, with a sigh of relief, kicked off her slip¬ 
pers. 

“Hey, take it easy.” Selma stuck a sleepy head 
through the doorway. “My head feels as though some¬ 
one were celebrating the Fourth of July there.” She 
groaned, “That smoke just about put me out of com¬ 
mission.” 


326 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“How on earth did you manage to get back and 
into bed so soon?” Joan asked, surveying her silken 
wiggling toes with satisfaction. 

“I only beat you by about five minutes. But two 
zippers and a shrug, and here I am.” Selma yawned. 
“Say, this blue hassock just matches my pajamas. What 
a night!” 

“That reminds me. I intended to write a few lines 
to mother tonight.” 

“Tonight?” 

“Yes. I thought I’d tell them the news while I still 
could remember what happened,” Joan slipped a sheet 
of paper into her noiseless portable typewriter and 
began to write as she talked. “I don’t ever think I’ll 
forget the sight of all the girls in party dresses trying 
to rescue their clothes and everything else. And the 
disgusted looks of the firemen every time they turned 
around and found another Alpha tripping over their 
hoses.” 

“It wasn’t exactly a picture of cool, calm, collected 
action,” Selma agreed with a smile. “But I was rather 
bewildered after a few minutes. No one knew what 
was happening, and the general idea seemed to be 
‘Let’s get out of here.’ It also seemed against the rules 
to leave without taking something with you, and, be¬ 
lieve it or not, I found myself standing on the walk 
with a hat under one arm and a vase in the other. 
I must have looked like the Statue of Liberty.” 

“But did you see Bill Stern?” 


3 2 7 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“No. I had my own troubles. Why?” 

“He suddenly dashed out of the house looking as 
pleased as Punch, and carrying the goldfish bowl. 

' Then he dropped it on the grass and spilt all the water 
and lost the fish. You should have seen him for the 
next minute! He scrambled around on his hands and 
knees trying to find the missing fish, and carefully 
put them back into the empty bowl. Then he ran 
over with it to a fire hose and managed to get some 
more water. The fish didn’t seem much the worse 
for the experience, though. They were swimming 
around when I last saw Bill with them.” 

“Come on in,” Joan answered a light tap on the 
hall door. “Why May, how come you’re wandering 
around at this time of night?” 

“Me, I’m collecting harrowing adventures of Roble 
girls for the sole benefit of the Daily ” May proclaimed. 
“And now, Miss Whitney, just how did you feel when 
you were trapped in that blazing inferno? Trapped, 
while outside your rescuers attempted to break through 
that towering curtain—that crackling, roaring wall of 
flame which held you—” 

“But, I wasn’t trapped. No one was,” Joan inter¬ 
rupted. 

“Hey, how about me?” Selma protested. “Don’t I 
get interviewed?” 

“That depends,” May eyed her suspiciously, “on 
whether or not your experiences and views on tonight’s 
fire merit the attention of our readers.” Assuming a 

328 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

lofty pose, May tapped on her pad with a pencil. 

“Well, to begin with—” 

“Remember, my motto is ‘All the truth that’s fit to 
print,’ ” May sternly admonished. 

“And I was going to make it really interesting! After 
all, I might have skinned my knee jumping into a fire¬ 
man’s net, instead of falling over a chair. It would 
make a much better story,” Selma looked up hope¬ 
fully. 

“You’re hopeless,” May snorted. “I’m beginning to 
see a nice white space in the Daily where my story 
should be,” she shook her head dolefully. 

“If it will be any help to you, you can have a copy 
of this letter,” Joan offered, pulling the paper out of 
her machine. “I’m so used to doing it, that I auto¬ 
matically made a carbon. It contains everything that 
I saw or heard tonight.” 

“Grand!” May scanned the sheets rapidly. “Why 
this is perfect! In fact, it’s a better story than I could 
write myself.” 

“Well, you’re welcome to it, and now methinks I’ll 
catch up on my sleep.” 

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard so far,” May agreed. 
“See you in the morning. Good night, and thanks for 
the story.” 

“Goodnight, May. ’Night, Selma.” 

“Oh, Joan, do you happen to have any aspirin? This 
head of mine still feels awful.” 

“I think so. Just a minute. Here they are.” 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Thanks.” 

Joan drowsily slipped out of her frock and hung the 
dainty dress in the closet. For a moment she looked 
at the row of dresses, puzzled. Something was missing. 
“Oh, my coat. Let’s see. What did I do with it?” 
Joan thought back over the evening. “No, I didn’t wear 
it. I’m positive I didn’t. But, it’s not here.” Fran¬ 
tically, she searched the dresses again, thinking it 
might be hidden behind one of them. Then, finding 
no trace of it, she ran into Selma’s room. “Selma! 
My coat’s gone!” 

“What’s the matter ? v 

“My coat. It’s gone.” 

“Gone where?” Selma’s answer was more of a 
groan than a question. 

“I don’t know. Oh, Selma, wake up! Please!” 

Selma wearily sat up. “Now, what’s it all about?” 
she demanded reproachfully. 

“I told you my coat has disappeared. I’m sure I 
left it on the chair when I went over to the Alpha 
House this evening, and I just discovered that it isn’t 
in my room now.” 

“Well, I’ll be darned if any coat can just evaporate. 
It must be somewhere in the room.” 

“But it isn’t. I’ve looked everywhere.” 

“Are you sure you didn’t take it with you?” 

“Positive. Why, you were here when I left. Re¬ 
member? I tossed it over the back of the chair and 


330 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

came out to help you collect those papers you had 
dropped?” 

“Why, yes,” Selma recollected. “And we went di¬ 
rectly downstairs then. But, what could have happened 
to it?” 

“I don’t know, unless someone came in and bor¬ 
rowed it for the evening. No one would do that, 
though without saying something about it. They know 
I wouldn’t mind if they’d ask.” 

“And anyway,” Selma agreed, “they’d have brought 
it back before now. Still, there’s no way any stranger 
could have gotten up here unnoticed.” 

“What do you think I ought to do?” 

“Nothing tonight. It’s too late to accomplish any¬ 
thing. It would be better to wait till morning and 
then, if it doesn’t turn up by, say ten o’clock, well, I’d 
begin asking questions.” 

“Yes, I guess you’re right,” Joan nodded. “There’s 
no use disturbing the entire hall tonight. If I find that 
someone just appropriated it without so much as a ‘by 
your leave,’ there’s going to be war. I don’t mind 
lending my things to people, but I do object to being 
imposed upon.” 

“I don’t blame you a bit,” Selma agreed. “That sort 
of thing just won’t do here. But jump into bed now, 
and tomorrow we’ll really start a search for it. And 
try not to worry.” 

“O. K. Sorry I woke you up. G’night.” 


33 1 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Goodnight, and get some sleep,” Selma again buried 
her head in the pillow. 

Joan half-heartedly looked around her room again, 
and then slipped under the covers. “Gosh, I hope it 
turns up some place,” she murmured fervently. “It 
must!” 

A few doors away, Geneve entering her suite found 
it quiet and empty. She remembered that Daphne, 
her suite-mate, had planned on a weekend at home. 
“Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m just as lonely when she’s 
here,” she told herself. Although their ways seldom 
met, Daphne had lately seemed to join in the general 
disapproval of some of Geneve’s actions. Her door, 
closing her in, shut out no one in the house who cared 
for her, Geneve reflected bitterly. “My circle of friends 
have gradually narrowed down and down till now 
there’s no one left in it but myself,” she told herself. 
Restlessly, she walked back and forth. “Tomorrow 
I’ll have to see it through. All the girls will know 
about the coat before noon. Oh, what’s the difference ? 
They’ve about decided that I’m not much good any¬ 
way, so one more black mark won’t matter particu¬ 
larly. But I’ve got to square this somehow with Joan! 
I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I know it, even if they 
don’t. But they’ll never believe it.” 

Suddenly, a tremor of fear caught at her throat. Her 
eyes opened wide and tears coursed unheeded down her 
face. “I only wanted to be admired and popular. Even 
I wanted to be loved a little bit. I’ve tried hard, but 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

I seem to just do the opposite to what they want. And 
now I’ve really gotten myself in a jam. What is wrong 
with me anyway?” She turned to the mirror and 
gasped at her reflection. Then deliberately to empha¬ 
size the ugliness of tear-streaked cheeks and swollen 
eyes, she lifted the waves and curls away from her 
face. They left a thin, little face, with high cheek 
bones, all angles, stark and unbeautiful. 

“That’s what I really am,” she said to herself de¬ 
fiantly, “and all the girls know it. I’m just a plain, 
ordinary girl with an overgrown bunch of conceit. 
For a while, I had a lot of people fooled, but now 
they all see through me. And yet, I really could be 
quite a nice person. Bring me down to earth and I 
might be someone after all. Well, I’ll bring myself 
down. In fact, I’m down already. Most of the things 
I have to do, I don’t mind any more. And the ones 
that I do, I’ll do anyway.” She stared back at herself 
in angry defiance as the tears trickled on down her 
cheeks and over her firm little chin. 


333 



Chapter Sixteen 


M aybe if I keep my eyes shut tightly, I can go 
back to sleep,” Joan reflected, feeling the morn- 
ing sun shining through her windows. “I really should 
get up right away and study for those quizzes. It’ll be 
much nicer later on, though.” With a little sigh she 
rolled over and pulled the covers over her head. “Last 
night—I’m so tired—last night? Oh, my coat!” with 
a start she sat up. “What a dream. Or was it a dream?” 
Hurriedly she looked in her closet and around the 
room. “No, it’s actually gone!” Now wide awake and 
remembering the details of the previous night’s hap¬ 
penings, Joan sat disconsolately on the edge of her 
bed. How could she explain her loss to Mom and 
Dad? “Well,” she decided after thinking for a few 


334 










JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

minutes, “the first thing to do is to get some breakfast. 
I’m going to need all the energy I have before this is 
over. In the meantime, maybe it will turn up some 
place. Perhaps one of the girls may have seen some 
trace of it. There’s bound to be an awful rumpus when 
I report that it’s missing from my room,” she shook 
her head ruefully. “But I can’t help it. They can’t 
very well expect me to be quiet when my only fur 
coat disappears!” Dressing quickly, she joined the 
other girls as they were going into the dining room. 

“What service,” Joan murmured blissfully, suspect¬ 
ing Greeks bearing gifts as she found a folded morn¬ 
ing newspaper by her place. Opening it, her eyes 
widened. The Alpha fire—but more than that! Almost 
word for word, here was the description she had writ¬ 
ten to her family! Glancing up, Joan found May’s 
amused eyes upon her. 

“You don’t mind, do you? I knew it was good the 
moment I saw it. So, I called Berge up and he drove 
me up to San Francisco. As you see, the Chronicle 
liked it. They told me to tell you that whenever you 
felt you had anything equally good, they’d be glad to 
look at it.” 

“Oh, May!” 

“And that’s not all. They sent you this.” May cere¬ 
moniously laid a check before Joan who was almost 
speechless with surprise and growing excitement. “But 
if you get that check framed and demand we hang it 
in the lobby, we’ll throw you out,” May threatened 


335 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

with a smile, seeking to ease the other’s obvious con¬ 
fusion. 

“Oh, thanks, May. Thanks a million!” Joan thought 
it sounded too prosaic for the occasion, and she fran¬ 
tically searched her mind for more glowing words. 

“Forget it! It was fun,” May laughed. “I just walked 
in, found the editor, looked him straight in the eye 
and then—then my courage seemed to fade away, and 
I sort of stuttered and handed him your paper. He 
glanced at it rather skeptically and then began to read 
the description. Then he sort of grunted, asked a 
couple of questions about the House’s location and 
you, and said he could use the story.” 

“What’s going on here?” Bobby and Dixie arrived 
arm in arm. 

“Joan’s story of the Alpha’s fire made the first page 
of the Chronicle .” 

“Congratulations!” 

“Whee! Nice going.” 

“How come?” 

“I wrote it for a letter I was sending Mom. And 
May took it up to the newspaper without saying a 
word,” Joan explained happily. 

“At that rate,” Bobby commented in an awed tone, 
“if she really started to write a news story in earnest 
it would probably end up by being printed in the At¬ 
lantic Monthly!’ 

“Yes, and to think of all that talent going to waste 
for the past year. We could all have hired her to 

33 ^ 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

write our letters home. You know, the ones 'explain¬ 
ing’ where our last month’s allowance went.” Dixie 
pensively remembered hours spent carefully wording 
such notes. 

“After six months in college, I didn’t think anyone 
needed help to write that kind of a letter,” Selma 
volunteered with a self-satisfied air. 

“No, but after six months in college most of us are 
apt to forget how to write any other kind, or to write 
at all except when we need help,” Bobby nodded sadly, 
thinking of her own laxness in letting her semi-weekly 
letter home become a weekly one. 

“Well, gals, when in doubt remember the time that 
a somewhat irked parent inserted a quarter-page adver¬ 
tisement in the Daily. He protested that while he 
didn’t mind the expense of his son’s education, and 
neither expected nor wanted gratitude for providing 
it, he rather thought he was entitled to at least a letter 
once in a while.” May’s eyes twinkled as several 
spoons plunged deeper into the grapefruits as the girls 
wielding them listened to the tale. “Besides,” she 
added mischievously, “just look how the fairies take 
care of the good little girls. Joan writes a letter to 
her mother, and behold, is rewarded by unexpected 
riches!” 

“Say, that’s an idea! How about it, Joan? Do we 
have a share-the-wealth-program this morning? Me? 
I’m broke! Sorry, I meant financially embarrassed.” 
Dixie looked up hopefully. 


337 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Hi, Saxon.” Bobby prevented any reply as the 
blonde girl sank into her place beside Joan. 

“Morning, everyone,” Saxon returned the greeting 
a bit absently. “Joan, I’ve got to see you as soon as 
possible—upstairs,” her voice was pitched so low that 
only Joan could hear. 

“All right, were finished now anyway.” 

A few minutes later, as the door of Joan’s room 
closed behind them, Saxon faced her companion a bit 
wearily. 

“It’s hard to know just how to begin, Joan. So much 
has happened in the past twenty-four hours that I’m 
rather dazed.” 

“So am I. Someone went bye-bye with my coat!” 

“Yes, I know—” 

“You know?” Joan’s eyes reflected her amazement. 
“But no one except Selma and I— Oh, Saxon, you 
didn’t-?” 

“No, I didn’t take your coat.” Saxon shook her 
head sadly. “It’s not as simple as all that.” 

“Well, who did then?” 

“Geneve borrowed it for the evening.” 

“Geneve! Why, of all the nerve! Why didn’t she 
tell me? I’ve been nearly frantic! Anyway, the coat 
is all right?” 

“That’s just the trouble. It’s not.” Saxon restlessly 
walked up and down. “Geneve merely meant to bor¬ 
row it but the fire—” 

“It was burned?” Joan’s voice was dreary. 

338 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Yes. But Joan, she didn’t expect anything to hap¬ 
pen to it. In fact she did everything humanly possible 
to save it.” 

“That doesn’t get me back my coat.” Joan felt more 
angry every moment. “It was the only thing in my 
wardrobe I was really proud of.” 

“I know. But you’ve just got to understand. It was 
an accident.” 

“Well, it wasn’t an accident that she took it in the 
first place. Geneve’s been like that ever since she first 
came. So intent on herself that others or their rights 
weren’t worth worrying about.” 

“Perhaps.” Saxon agreed gently. “And I don’t blame 
you for being angry. I would be myself in your place. 
But, there’s something else at stake, something that I 
think is a little more important than either your coat 
or your feelings.” 

“What, for instance?” Joan demanded bitterly. 

“A girl’s future,” Saxon returned gravely. “It’s true 
that Geneve did lose your coat, and it’s also true that 
she has been an exceedingly selfish, self-centered in¬ 
dividual for the past year. But neither fault is serious 
enough to warrant her leaving Stanford. And that’s 
what will happen if the story gets out.” 

“That’s her worry. She should have thought of it 
before.” 

“No, it’s yours too. You’ll forget the coat long be¬ 
fore you had forgotten Geneve, and had stopped won¬ 
dering where she was.” 


339 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“How did you happen to find out about it anyway ?” 

“Geneve woke me up about six o’clock this morn¬ 
ing. She was up all night trying to figure out what 
she could do to make amends. She’s changed, Joan. 
Really she has. She apologized for all the times she’s 
‘cut’ me, and then told me the whole story. All her 
bags were packed and she intended to catch the first 
train up to San Francisco. She said that she could 
probably get a job and might eventually save enough 
to buy you a new coat.” 

“Where is she now?” 

“In my room. I argued with her for two solid hours, 
until I was practically exhausted too. Finally, she 
agreed to wait till tonight and she fell asleep on my 
bed. Joan, if it’s really the loss of the coat— Well, I’ve 
gotten a little money together and—” 

“Hey, Joan—” a knock and the opening of the door 
were almost simultaneous. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Sandra 
stopped short. “It’s nothing important. I’ll see you 
later, Joan.” Sandra sensed the tense atmosphere and 
started to back out of the room. 

“Just a minute, Sandra,” Saxon looked at her thought¬ 
fully. “I think you’re just the person to help us think 
this thing out. Sit down a minute, will you?” 

“What thing?” Sandra looked curiously from one 
to the other. 

“But Saxon—” Joan protested. 

“It’s all right, Joan,” Saxon’s voice held a note of 
authority. “I know what I’m doing.” 


340 


JOAN’S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Quickly, in short, terse sentences she outlined for 
Sandra’s ears the problem that confronted them. 

And now, what can we do? I mean, how can we 
straighten this out with the least possible damage 
to everyone?” 

“Seems like there has been quite a bit of damage 
already,” Sandra commented bluntly. 

“But do you think Geneve should have to leave?” 
Saxon held to her point. 

“It does seem a bit harsh, but how about Joan? 
After all, it was her coat.” 

“Well, Geneve’s going away won’t bring that back,” 
Joan offered. “It’s gone, and that’s that.” 

“Not quite,” Sandra spoke decisively. “No, Geneve 
will have to replace it.” 

“Don’t be silly. We’ll just forget about it.” Joan 
shrugged resignedly. 

“She can’t. She hasn’t the money,” Saxon agreed. 

“I’ll loan it to her.” 

“You?” 

“Yes, of course. Well, don’t look at me so incredu¬ 
lously. I get quite a big allowance and I’ve saved most 
of it. It’s not doing me any good where it is.” 

“But why—?” 

“Because no other way will make it possible for 
her to stay. If she didn’t replace it, the thought that 
the story might come out sooner or later would always 
hang over her head and she’d be living in constant 
suspense. Also, she’d feel deeply under obligation to 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Joan, and one just can’t be friends with a girl one’s 
hopelessly in debt to.” 

“But then she’ll still be under obligation to you,” 
Saxon objected. “Your lending her money will only 
complicate matters.” 

“No it won’t,” Sandra stated calmly. “She won’t feel 
under any obligation to me. No, not when she finds out 
I intend to charge her, let’s say, two percent interest.” 

“Interest!” The two girls gazed at her in shocked 
amazement. 

“I might have known there would be a catch in the 
offer somewhere,” Saxon sniffed distastefully. 

Sandra smiled wryly. “I expected an explosion at 
that idea, but it can’t be helped. Believe me, if I 
learned nothing else from having wealthy parents, I 
did learn the whys and wherefores of money. I don’t 
really care about the possibility of not getting my loan 
repaid, and certainly not about a few cents interest, 
but it is the only way of putting it on a business-like 
basis. She’ll undoubtedly think I’m a penny-pinching 
moneybags, but she’ll at least feel free and have some 
self-respect left.” 

“I guess you’re right,” Saxon agreed with a new 
note of respect in her voice. “I’m sorry I misunder¬ 
stood.” 

“Forget it. Just tell Geneve not to worry any more 
and I’ll drop in to see her later on.” 

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Saxon paused at the door, 
“there’s still something else.” 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“There can’t be!” Sandra groaned. “Not this morn¬ 
ing at any rate. Not when I have some studying I 
just must get done.” 

“That’s it.” 

“What’s it? My studying?” 

“No Geneve’s. She’s been spending too much time 
on other things and she will either have to pass those 
finals reasonably well, or else our efforts to help her 
will be wasted. She’ll be flunked.” 

“Well for goodness’ sakes! What do you think we 
can do about that?” Sandra was a bit exasperated. 
“We’re going to have a hard enough time ourselves.” 

“We could drill her in a series of cram sessions. We 
probably could all stand the review,” Joan proposed 
thoughtfully. 

“I give up,” Sandra sank wearily back into her chair. 
“Here, I thought I’d spend a nice, quiet weekend on 
the campus and look at what I got myself into!” 

“You will help, though?” Saxon urged. 

“If I’ve got to, I’ve got to.” Sandra groaned. “It’s 
just ’cause I’ve promised to lend her the money 
though,” she defended her weakening. “I can’t af¬ 
ford to let her be dropped out. Then I’d never get 
paid back.” 

“Of course. We understand.” Saxon’s smile van¬ 
ished at Sandra’s suspicious look. “See you two later 
then.” With a wave she was gone. 

“She’s a grand person, Joan.” Sandra attempted to 
brush the wrinkles out of her skirt. 


343 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Joan spoke warmly. 
“Oh, I don’t merely mean about this particular thing, 
but all the time.” 

“But I—” 

“Never mind. What did you want to see me about 
in such a hurry a few minutes ago?” 

“I—I— I’ve really forgotten,” Sandra confessed with 
a grin. “I have a better idea though. Let’s hike over 
and raid the Cellar. Anything for an excuse to dodge 
those books,” her eyes rested momentarily on an im¬ 
posing pile of books which perched precariously on 
the edge of Joan’s desk. 

“Motion seconded and carried,” Joan agreed briskly, 
picking up her jacket. “The fresh air will do us good 
anyway.” 

At the Cellar, they weren’t very surprised to find 
Bobby perched on a stool, contentedly munching some 
cookies and regarding a large milkshake affectionately. 

“Hi, Bobby. You really look happy. Where’s Butch? 
Or is he still in disgrace?” 

“He claims he has the delphinium situation under 
control. Maybe we can eventually walk around the 
campus without having to duck behind bushes every 
time Mrs. Frees appears. We’ll know in a few min¬ 
utes. He telephoned and said he’d meet me here.” 

“Meanwhile you seem to be getting a head start 
on the refreshments,” Sandra observed smiling. 

“I figured I’d just save the check for Butch,” Bobby 
complacently sipped on. “Come on and join me. 


344 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Butch ought to pay handsomely to be reinstated in our 
good graces. And besides think of the mental an¬ 
guish I suffered,” she added virtuously. 

“Here he comes now.” 

“Welcome, Butch!” 

“Hello,” the boy’s voice matched his crestfallen 
air. 

“What’s wrong? Couldn’t you fix it up?” Bobby 
asked anxiously. 

“Yes, everything has been taken care of. That is, if 
you mean Mrs. Frees’ garden, or will be in a couple 
of days.” 

“What’s the matter then, Butch? You look as if 
you’ve lost your last friend.” 

“It’ll cost me so much that I’ll be bankrupt for the 
next ten years,” he mourned pessimistically. 

“What cost so much?” Joan prompted. “Did Mrs. 
Frees ask that you pay for the flowers?” 

“No, of course not,” Butch explained. “Besides, of¬ 
fering her money wouldn’t have done any good. Bobby 
told me to do what I could to regain her good will, so 
I went to one of the big landscaping companies with 
a snapshot of the Frees’ house. The man promised to 
fix that plot of ground so that it would be even bet¬ 
ter than it was before but—oh, I didn’t know flowers 
could be so expensive!” He shook his head ruefully. 
“The next time I’ll destroy something cheap, like a 
Ming vase!” 

“That’s tough luck,” Joan sympathised. “Wasn’t 


345 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

there any way of just fixing the plants that were al¬ 
ready there?” 

“No, when we went to work, we swept the place 
clean.” 

“Butch never does anything half-way,” Bobby con¬ 
fided to the world sadly. “Now that he’s broke, I’ll 
have to pay for my own drink.” 

“Not only yours, but mine.” A cheerful grin re¬ 
turned to Butch’s face. “When I get out of funds, 
I really get out of funds. Right now I haven’t enough 
to buy a newspaper.” 

“Oh, and I left my purse at Roble,” Bobby exclaimed 
weakly. “Joan, you’re my sorority sister—?” 

Her hopeful look faded as Joan shook her head. 
“I’ve only got a quarter with me.” 

“Well, rather than see you two remain here for 
the rest of your lives, I’ll bail you out,” Sandra of¬ 
fered. “If they put you to washing dishes, you’d 
eat continuously and you never would catch up. 
Besides we need Bobby for a cram session tonight.” 

“Think I’d rather stay here,” Bobby demurred. “It 
has a restful atmosphere anyway.” 

“No, you’re the whiz at Western Civilization, and 
we’ve got to go over that thoroughly,” Joan reminded 
sternly. 

“Why? Who’s in trouble now?” 

“Geneve has to get in some real cramming in order 
to get by in the finals.” 

“Well, who cares if she doesn’t?” Bobby demanded. 

346 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“I’m sure I don’t. She’s always done exactly as she 
pleased, and she’s never bothered about us. Why 
should we worry about her troubles?” 

“Look, Bobby, I haven’t asked you many favors, but 
really I’d appreciate your help now. I think we’ve 
cracked that veneer of sophistication she’s always worn, 
and that there’s real stuff underneath. You won’t re¬ 
gret it, I promise. And remember that time we worked 
over French with you just before the semi-finals?” 
Joan disliked to remind her of past favors, but could 
see no alternative. 

“Well, if you put it that way, sure I’ll help,” Bobby 
consented. “Can’t I tell her though that any dumb 
bunny could learn it the first time?” She grinned 
in anticipation. 

“Hold on there,” Sandra protested vehemently, “I 
came near getting dropped from that class last quar¬ 
ter. And I’m not a dumb bunny!” 

“Uh, oh,” Bobby murmured. “Apologies humbly 
offered. I thought present company was always ex¬ 
cepted.” 

“Generally is,” Sandra agreed, “but that course in 
Western Civilization happens to be one of my weak 
spots.” 

“Come on, we’d better go back and get to work,” 
Joan suggested. “But first let’s look over the Alpha 
House in the daylight.” 

“Right, let’s go.” 

The white stucco building, which had been spot- 


347 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

lessly clean and impressive in the previous day’s sun, 
now stood dismal and forlorn, covered with soot, 
and with the top story and roof a mass of charred 
wreckage. 

“It’s too bad it had to be the Alpha’s,” Bobby surveyed 
the ruins sadly. “Did they find out any more about 
it? Or how it started?” 

“Nothing only that it originated on the third floor. 
They’ll probably never find out exactly what caused it.” 

“I’m glad, if it had to happen, that no one was 
injured,” Joan pointed out. “The place was jammed 
last night and it could have been a whole lot worse 
than it was.” 

“Perhaps, but that was quite enough for me,” Sandra’s 
tone left no doubt as to her feelings in the matter. 
“I’m practically saturated with smoke, and I can still 
smell that burnt wood. I’ve had enough fires for a long 
while. I’m going on back to Roble. Coming?” 

# # # 

As twilight fell that afternoon, most of the Roble 
girls were digging into books in preparation for the 
coming week of finals, while in Joan’s room a group 
was settling down for serious work. 

Geneve, wielding a jar of paste, worked with Saxon 
as they fitted typewriter paper together to form one 
large sheet about eighteen by twenty-four inches in 



size. 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“There. It’s finished.” Saxon surveyed her handi¬ 
work with pride. “Now, who’s got a ruler?” 

“Here’s one,” Dixie held it up over her shoulder 
from the floor where she was surrounded by papers and 
books. 

“Good. Here, Geneve, you block it out now. We 
want— Hey, Bobby, how many squares?” 

“About ten each way. We want to put the various 
phases and periods of development across the top and 
each division such as commerce, art, and religion will 
be listed in a row along the side. Then we can carry 
each division through from the beginning.” 

With the blank chart stuck on the wall, the cram 
session really started in earnest. Each phase was dis¬ 
cussed, checked, and re-checked. The main points 
were then condensed for use on the chart. The hours 
slipped by and the drilling continued. To Joan’s 
mind, the picture was very much like one in the play. 
Dixie had finally fallen asleep, curled up on the top 
of her bed. Sandra and Selma were alternately nod¬ 
ding and dozing off in chairs, while Bobby and Saxon 
kept questioning Geneve between cups of coffee. It 
was almost three by the time the session finally broke 
up, for a few hours’ sleep before the first quiz which 
was scheduled for nine o’clock. 

Sleepy-eyed but fortified with innumerable cups of 
black coffee, the girls straggled toward class the next 
morning. “Do you think Geneve can make it?” Saxon 
asked, putting her arm through Joan’s. 


349 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“If she can’t, there’s something wrong. We’ve never 
worked harder with anyone. And she had those facts 
learned so that she could almost repeat them back¬ 
wards.” 

“Have you seen her this morning?” 

“Only for a moment. She left before we did. We’ll 
probably find her sitting on the steps.” 

“Well, you said that Geneve had changed, but I 
still can’t believe my eyes and ears. She’s actually 
almost perfect.” 

“I thought you’d agree with me. She accepted San¬ 
dra’s offer as a lifesaver, but didn’t get maudlin. I 
think we’ll find she has a lot of spunk and energy 
before long.” 

“I’m glad it turned out the way it did. Sandra has 
a much better grasp of the principles of human psychol¬ 
ogy than I gave her credit for having. She certainly 
saved us from making rather a mess of things.” 

“She surprised me too,” Saxon nodded. “Well, here 
we are, and there’s Geneve.” 

With the bell, the students filed into the building, 
picking up their blue books in which the questions 
were to be answered as they entered the classroom. 
Looking around her, Joan saw none of the signs of 
gaiety that usually managed to creep into the room. 
Nothing except earnest determination was reflected on 
the faces of her classmates. Hurriedly she glanced at 
the question sheet. “How had Roman civilization, up 
to the time of Constantine, been influenced by its her- 


350 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

itage from the civilizations of the ancient east and 
Greece?” Forty-five minutes for the answer! With 
one more quick glance around to see how her friends 
were getting along, Joan briskly started to write. 

This scene was to be duplicated constantly in the next 
few days. The brief intervals between examinations 
were devoted to one continuous cram session. Some¬ 
times it was Geneve who was in need of help, and 
sometimes Dixie and Selma, but all of the girls profited 
by the sessions. 

After finishing the last examination on Wednesday 
afternoon, the girls greeted Thursday with happy satis¬ 
faction. Senior week and the Senior Ball! The campus 
again began to buzz with excitement and anticipation. 

“Going to the Ball?” Bobby asked meeting Joan 
in the hall just before lunch. 

“Yes, Don asked me the other day. How about 
yourself?” 

“I’ll be there with bells on. After those quizzes 
I feel as though we deserve a really bang-up affair.” 

“It will be. At least, Hugh promised that it would 
be the best dance the campus has seen in many a day. 
So long, I’ll see you later.” 

“Why the rush?” 

“Don just ’phoned and said he wanted to see me 
as soon as possible. There he is now. ’Bye.” 

Outside, Don was just getting out of a borrowed 
roadster when Joan joined him. 


35 1 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“What’s wrong, Don? Hugh isn’t ill again, is he?” 
she asked anxiously. 

“Of course not. This is going to be fun. Come on, 
hop in.” He shut the door as Joan obeyed, and, circling 
around the car, slid in beside her. “Away we go and 
where we’ll stop nobody knows,” Don chuckled glee¬ 
fully as he pressed the starter. 

“Oh Don, please don’t take me on a sightseeing 
jaunt this afternoon. I’ve got a million things to do. 
Remember the party is tonight, and I wanted to see 
Hugh for a few minutes too.” 

“Don’t worry, Joan. You take life too seriously. Now 
look at me, for example. I’m not worrying about a 
thing. The sun is shining. Exams are over. A dance 
is in the offing. Why there’s not a cloud on the whole 
horizon.” 

“Yes? Well, just remember that if my dress isn’t 
ready in time, I’ll attend the Senior Ball in a pair of 
overalls,” Joan threatened darkly. 

“Sort of turn it into a costume ball?” Don grinned. 
“I told you not to worry. I’ll bring you back in plenty 
of time. Right now we’ve more important things 
to do.” 

Swinging north on El Camino Real for a short dis¬ 
tance, Don turned into a side road at the end of which 
the gateway to The Allied Arts Guild beckoned. 

“Gosh, Don!” Joan exclaimed in delight. “I haven’t 
had tea here for simply ages. I think it’s the pret¬ 
tiest spot on the whole Peninsula. This is a surprise!” 


35 2 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“I rather thought you’d like it. Let’s go in.” 

The walled-in gardens were a world unto themselves. 
Once past the gate it was hard to believe that outside, 
in a busy commercial world, time rushed on. Here 
it did not matter, for here was the California of the 
Dons—quiet, calm, serene—with the charming dig¬ 
nity of old Spain flavored by the rich tang of adven¬ 
turous California. After pausing several times to admire 
the shrubbery and colorful blossoms, Joan finally al¬ 
lowed herself to be led through several arches to the 
patio where, from the sound of voices and laughter, 
some sort of party was already well started. “Probably 
some Seniors are celebrating,” she reflected, as they 
rounded the corner and stepped onto the terrace. 
“Oh, it can’t be!” But it was. Around a gaily deco¬ 
rated table sat her parents, Mr. Bishop and Hugh! 

“Mom!” Joan flung her arms around her mother’s 
shoulders. “Mom, how in the world did you and 
Dad get here? And Mr. Bishop, too. I’m so glad 
to see you! I expected you for Commencement 
but I thought that tomorrow was the earliest you 
could possibly arrive? Where did you stay last night? 
How did you get here this early? Hugh, you knew 
they were coming. Why didn’t you tell me?” Joan 
frowned at her brother who returned her gaze ami¬ 
ably. 

“We just thought it would be fun to surprise you,” 
Mrs. Whitney smiled. “So we stayed overnight in 
San Francisco and drove down this morning. Sit down, 


353 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

dear, you’re getting too excited. I think your father 
has some good news for you.” 

“Well, who wouldn’t get excited at this?” Joan 
slipped into the chair Don offered and looked ques- 
tioningly at her father. 

Don couldn’t restrain himself any longer. “We did 
it, Joan! They’re going to build the houses! We’ve 
gotten the money. They said ‘No’ at first, but finally 
they said ‘Yes.’ ” 

“What houses? Whose money? And who said 
‘Yes’?” Bewildered, Joan vainly tried to make sense 
out of Don’s tumbling words. 

“Don’s houses and yours, Joan,” her father gently 
explained. “They’re really going to be built now.” 

“But how?” Joan’s puzzled eyes flew from one to 
the other. “Where?” 

“Hugh can probably answer that better than I,” Mr. 
Whitney looked across the table. “Let’s give him a 
chance.” 

“Remember, Joan,” Hugh began when quiet reigned 
for a moment, “I told you I’d try to put those paintings 
you gave me to some practical use? Well, I studied 
your data and the drawings for quite a while. The 
more I thought it over the better the whole idea seemed, 
but it sounded a little too good to be practical. Finally 
I cornered Don one day and found he felt the same 
as you did—that it was something to dream about but 
to forget for the time being. I took the paintings to 
him and started to revive the old enthusiasm. Within 


354 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

a few minutes, it was he who was pointing out the 
advantages of the plans, while I tried to find flaws 
in his arguments.” 

That’s putting it rather mildly,” Don protested. 
“All the truth now. Hugh went at me as if I were 
his opponent’s star witness and were perjuring myself 
at every word,” he explained mournfully. “If I said 
the roof should be tile, he’d argue for slate, and vice 
versa.” 

“I had to,” Hugh grinned at the recollection. “I 
wanted to try to anticipate every objection that might 
possibly be raised by a prospect. Not only that, but 
I also wanted to make sure, as far as I was able, 
that the whole idea would hold water under fire.” 

“And by the time we had finished, he was hoarse 
and we were both exhausted!” Don finished. 

“And then what happened?” Joan prompted as the 
laughter subsided. 

“Then they both came after me,” Mr. Whitney took 
up the tale. “I really had no idea of what Don and 
Hugh were up to until, after I had made a few very 
minor suggestions, I agreed that they were the finest 
designs for a small home that I had seen for a long 
time. Then the boys really started to work in earnest. 
While Don talked figures and materials as fast as he 
could string the statistics together, Hugh gently painted 
dreamy pictures of the finished development with a 
glib tongue. He actually had me seeing the little cot¬ 
tages with golden haired children playing in the yards! 


355 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

Those two certainly make a good team,” he shook his 
head with mock ruefulness. 

“You mean,” Mrs. Whitney inquired, “that you let 
these two boys sell you a development on the spur of 
the moment?” 

“Not exactly. Their plans crystallized the ideas that 
I had had in the back of my head for quite a while. 
I needed someone to help me who is really enthusiastic, 
and who has the courage of his convictions. Today 
there are too many people around who believe that 
it’s hopeless to attempt anything new.” 

“I assume that the houses will be built on your land, 
Dad, but where in the world did the money to finance 
this project come from?” Joan demanded. 

“Mr. Bishop can claim most of the credit for that,” 
her father replied. 

“Nonsense!” Mr. Bishop demurred. “I’ve put very 
little into it. And advancing money for a sure fire 
proposition like that is no gamble. Besides, the banks 
are doing the real underwriting.” 

“Nevertheless, it was you who convinced the banks 
that the idea was sound. You see, Joan,” Mr. Whitney 
turned back to his daughter, “that is rather a long 
story. Briefly, eleven banks refused to finance the 
undertaking, and then, just when we had about given 
up hope—about the time Hugh’s eyes went back 
on him—the government approved the appropriation 
for the new highway. The latest plans bring it to 
within a mile of our Visalia property, and, when the 

356 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

banks heard that, ten out of the eleven refusals turned 
into offers to underwrite the project.” 

“That certainly was a lucky coincidence!” 

“Lucky in more ways than one,” her father agreed. 
“But now I’m happy to say that neither you nor Hugh 
will have to worry about your expenses next semester. 
That is,” he added hastily, “reasonable expenses. Were 
not quite rich yet.” 

“And Don?” Joan asked. 

“He’s already a partner in the firm of Whitney and 
Bishop. In fact,” Mr. Whitney smiled, “I’ll really have 
to work to keep it from becoming Bishop and 
Whitney!” 


# # # 

“Joan,” Bobby sitting on top of her trunk groaned 
in despair. “Do you mind coming in here for a mo¬ 
ment? This packing is getting me down!” 

“Just a second—” Joan tucked some stockings into 
the already solidly packed case and turned to help 
Bobby. “Now, what’s the trouble?” she demanded 
briskly. 

“My white blouse I intended to wear home is in 
there!” Bobby’s finger pointed viciously to the trunk. 
“Probably way at the bottom,” she added in a bitter 
wail. 

“Well, don’t worry. You can borrow mine. Wait a 
minute and I’ll get it.” 

“Oh,” Bobby drew a deep breath, “if I had to shut 


357 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

this trunk twice in one day why—why I couldn’t, 
that’s all,” she declared firmly. “Thanks a million. If 
I were only as methodical as you, life would be so 
simple. But not nearly so much fun,” she grinned 
at the thought of her “armful at a time” method of 
packing. 

“Bobby, remember when I first came?” Joan asked 
pensively from the window as she watched the students 
hurrying to and fro, the cars backing and starting, 
the stir and excitement of the campus on Commence¬ 
ment Day. “Remember how scared I was ? And 
how big the campus seemed? It was just last spring. 
Only a year and yet I feel as though I’ve been here for 
ages.” 

“So do I.” Bobby slipped down and put her arm 
around the other’s shoulder. “The time passed so 
quickly. It’ll seem strange living up on the Row 
when we come back in the fall. I’ll miss this place.” 

“So’ll I,” Joan nodded slowly. “We’ve had some 
grand times here. But I guess we’ll be even fonder 
of the Alpha House before we graduate.” 

“I suppose you’re right. You usually are. But we’ll 
never again have so many new experiences in such a 
short time.” 

“Not until we leave Stanford,” Joan agreed, “but 
from now on we’re going to be able to take more in¬ 
terest in student activities. And the first thing I’m 
going to do when I get back is to go after a job on 
the ‘Daily.’ ” 


35* 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“A job on the ‘Daily’? Why not stick to dramatics?” 

“I’ll still try-out for every play I can,” Joan explained, 
“but I really want to try being a reporter. I like to 
write and news coverage is becoming more important 
every day. There’s a great opportunity in that field, 
and I think that I’d enjoy it. I guess that the story of 
mine the ‘Chronicle’ printed started me thinking in that 
direction,” she confessed, a little embarrassed. “Oh, 
it’s not as bad as you think. I really mean to work and 
if I show any ability I’ll continue. If not, well the 
experience will have been valuable anyway.” 

“That’s a good idea. You’ll never know unless you 
actually try it for a while. By the way, Hugh is coming 
back in the fall, isn’t he?” 

“Yes, he still has two more years of post-graduate 
work to do. It would be lonesome without him around 
to scold me every once in a while. But I’ll have to 
hurry. I promised to meet Mom and Dad and have 
lunch with them, and I’ve still some odds and ends 
to pack.” 

“When are you leaving?” 

“We’re going home by car right after Commence¬ 
ment. But I’ll see you again before I leave. Right now, 
I’ve got to run for it.” 

“Hi, Joan!” Del’s voice battled the clatter of his 
car. “I was just coming over to see you? Whither 
away r 

“Hello Del,” Joan turned and stopped. “How about 
dropping me over at the Union ? Promised to meet my 


359 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

father and mother there for lunch. How about join¬ 
ing us?” 

“I’d love to, Joan.” Del shook his head, “but I’ve 
promised to meet the one o’clock train. My father 
said he’d be on it. I came over especially to find out 
when you were leaving.” 

“About five-thirty. Why?” 

“Just wanted to give you a send-off. If I don’t see 
you again before you leave, try to be at the main gate 
at exactly half-past five.” 

“All right. I’ll do my very best to get there.” 

“And Joan—” 

“Yes?” 

“Have a really good time this summer. Take it easy 
and keep that brother of yours away from his books 
for a while.” 

“I’ll try to do both, Del. But the same to you.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Del chuckled, “I’m 
going wandering. Dad has to make a business trip to 
Mexico City and he’s agreed to take me with him.” He 
let the car roll to an easy stop at the Union and opened 
the door. “Well, till fall then, Joan. Have a good 
time and adios!” 

“Have a grand trip, Del. ’Bye!” Joan hurried into 
the building. Amid a hum of excitement Joan found 
her party around a big table. Hugh looked quite 
himself and Mr. Bishop, joking continuously, was 
enjoying everything. With her mother and father 
looking happy and carefree, Joan’s own spirits rose. 

360 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Joan,” Mr. Bishop tried to make himself heard 
over the clatter and roar that went on about them, 
“your father and mother and I have had several little 
talks together and we’ve come to some very fine deci¬ 
sions. You know I’ve that big log cabin at Huntington 
Lake, and Don and I are always a bit lonely in it. So 
your father finally accepted an invitation for all of 
you to join us there this summer, that is, if you haven’t 
made other plans. You and Don and Hugh should 
be able to think up a lot of ways of entertaining each 
other. And you all need a good rest. As for me, 
I’m selfish. A good partner at chess is my idea of 
perfection, and your father is a worthy opponent. 
Then, too, there are a few little things I want to talk 
over with Hugh. We’re both interested in law, and 
I’ve had my eye on this young man for a long time. 
I understand that the successful conclusion of that 
case his Palo Alto friend was fighting was partially due 
to the painstaking effort Hugh put into the research 
work.” 

“Yes, that’s what he told Hugh. Oh, a summer up 
at the lake will do him a world of good, and, as for me, 
it’s just perfect!” 

“And Joan,” Don interposed eagerly, “I’ve got an 
idea for another house. You’re elected to help with the 
decorations. It’ll be even better than the one that’s 
already done. Look,” he attempted to sketch with his 
fork on the table cloth, “a covered terrace with French 
doors, and on this side by the garage, a patio with—” 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Oh,” Mr. Bishop groaned in feigned dismay, “why 
didn’t I insist on his being a lawyer ? Life would have 
been so much more simple! You know, Joan,” he 
confided with a rueful smile, “Don attempts to sell me 
the idea of remodeling our house every time I see him. 
He’ll wear my resistance down if he keeps it up. Could 
you use your influence and help me save my little cubby¬ 
hole of a den ? And the house if—” 

“Aw, that’s using unfair tactics,” Don protested. 

“Besides, that’s only part of the story. Dad doesn’t 
mention what happened the last time I tried to put 
across the idea. He was even more amiable than usual, 
and he tentatively approved all the changes. Then 
he confided in me. He told me that the reason for 
his seeming distrust of my plans was that I hadn’t 
any really practical experience. Drawing, of course, 
but no experience with actual construction, and that 
if I could show him—” Don shook his head dis¬ 
gustedly. “Before I knew it he had me putting up 
shelves, fixing the stairs, and before I woke up and 
found out Dad had gotten the best of that encounter 
I could mentally count the blisters on my hands and my 
back— Ouch!” 

“It seems,” Joan turned quizzical eyes in Mr. Bishop’s 
direction, “that this is too even a contest for me to take 
sides. In fact, you are getting slightly the better of it 
without anyone’s help!” 

“Well, maybe,” he conceded with a cheerful grin. 
“After all, what’s the use of being a lawyer if I can’t 

362 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

win an argument with my own son?” Leaning back 
comfortably, he lit his cigar. “Have to show him that 
his Dad can still keep up with the young fellows.” 

“What do you say to our making one last tour of the 
campus?” Hugh suggested. “We won’t have much 
time later on and—” 

“Great idea,” his father interrupted. “We’ll have 
plenty of time before the exercises.” 

So, crowded with the others into Mr. Bishop’s car, 
Joan passed the familiar spots with the feeling that she 
had known them always. 

# # # 

Seated on the terraced seats of the amphitheatre later 
that afternoon the pageantry of the Commencement ex¬ 
ercises unfolded before their eyes. 

“There he is, Joan. See him?” Joan’s mother reached 
across Mr. Whitney and touched her on the arm. 
“Fourth from the left over by the trees.” 

Joan smiled back at her, and then tried to distinguish 
her brother among the black gowned seniors grouped 
on the grass covered stage ready to receive their 
diplomas. On all sides, the green walls of the amphi¬ 
theatre rose to shut them into a little world of dream¬ 
like beauty. Nature had been brought to perfection 
here with studied skill. 

A shiver of excitement ran down Joan’s spine. This 
was it. This was the goal that she was working toward 
—that Hugh had reached. Or was it? 

3 6 3 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“The University has given you a diploma, not so 
much as a certificate of work done as an admission 
ticket to new opportunities and to new possibilities—” 
the words of Stanford’s President, Dr. Ray Lyman 
Wilbur crisply broke the stillness as he addressed 
the graduates. 

“That’s it,” Joan exclaimed to herself. “It’s not the 
end. It’s the beginning, the real beginning. Next year 
we’ll—” with a start she brought her attention back 
to the scene. 

“A man must learn that his own backbone is his 
best support. Leaning on others is the prerogative of 
the weak. There is no substitute for will power. Edu¬ 
cation, money, opportunity amount to but little with¬ 
out the trained will of the man behind them. The man 
who ambles along with the crowd, unthinking and 
without initiative, is on his way to be shorn with his 
companion sheep. With us majorities rule; so we must 
not be content to be with the majority, but we must, 
as educated men and women, help to see that the deci¬ 
sion of the majority is right. Only righteous decisions 
are durable. In spite of its terrible inadequacies and 
awful blunders, civilization is working steadily toward 
higher levels and greater light.” The firm, sincere voice 
of the President continued, carrying before it the ap¬ 
proval and respect of an attentive and sympathetic 
audience. 

During the applause which followed the President’s 
speech, Joan looked about her again. There were Bobby 

364 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

and Butch with a mother and father and two sisters 
equally as chubby and cheery-looking as they, seated 
just below; a group of Alphas whose parents had not 
come. Some of Hugh’s friends were to the right of 
her under a tree and with several Roble girls. 

On the stage, the seniors were slowly moving before 
Dr. Wilbur. Each received, with a bow and nod and 
mumbled, “Thank you,” his or her precious sheep¬ 
skin. There was Hugh at last, and at the look on his 
face, Joan’s own happiness seemed to pale. She had, 
until now, resented his illness, that after a happy four 
years he should have had to fight off illness during his 
last term. But at this moment it seemed to her that 
he might have gained a new and different kind of 
strength, a self-reliance that would carry him through 
any trouble he might meet. Perhaps too, he valued this 
diploma just a little more now because the struggle 
had been so bitter to attain it. 

After an exuberant ten minutes as the exercises closed 
and the spectators left their seats in a surge toward the 
stage to greet the graduates, the group finally emerged 
from the amphitheatre a bit out of breath. 

“We’ll drop you off at Roble, Joan,” Mr. Bishop 
decided, “then we’ll take Hugh up to his house to get 
his bag. We’ll pick you up again on the way back. All 
right?” 

“That’s perfect. I want to say goodby to a couple 
of the girls anyway.” 

In her room, Joan found Bobby who was walking 

3 6 5 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

around a bit impatiently, crunching a big apple. 

“Gosh, I thought you’d never get here,” she ex¬ 
claimed at the sight of Joan. “I’ve been waiting—and 
waiting—and waiting— Why I almost ran out of sup¬ 
plies,” she nodded toward a bag that had once held 
the apple and its brethren. “Saxon and Geneve were 
here a moment ago. They said they’d drop back. 
But now, I have to rush myself. Mom and Dad are 
waiting.” 

“It’s been grand having you in this suite, Bobby,” 
Joan spoke impulsively. “But next fall it will be even 
better. Well be all together again. Have a good time 
and—oh, I didn’t see Butch! Well, you tell him goodby 
for me, will you?” 

“Right. And Joan—” 

“Yes?” 

“You’re rather nice to have around, too. Especially,” 
Bobby’s eyes twinkled impishly, “when you have extra 
blouses hidden about.” 

“Scat!” Joan laughing, stamped her foot. “’Bye!” 

For a moment or two Joan had peace, and she quickly 
packed the remaining few things in her suitcase. 

“Hi! Ready to go?” 

At the question, Joan turned to find Sandra watching. 

“Now that’s what I call real packing. I had to buy 
another bag to fit all of my junk in, and then it all 
wouldn’t go. So,” Sandra’s voice rang with triumph 
and self-satisfaction, “I finally fixed everything. Just 

366 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

drove my gas buggy up to the door and dumped an 
armful of things in the rumble seat!” 

“Going home alone?” Joan asked, amused at the 
simple solution. 

“No. Some friends of Mother’s are going up to San 
Francisco with me. Four ladies.” 

“But won’t some of them have to ride in back?” 

“Of course. We all can’t sit up front. I’ll put two of 
them in the rumble—oh, Joan!” Sandra sank down 
on the bed. “What’ll I do? They’re the kind who 
absolutely insist on everything being just exactly as it 
should be. Wait till they tell Mother!” She groaned 
at the thought. 

“Can’t you take your things out of the car?” 

“Down there ? It’s like Market Street during the five 
o’clock rush!” 

“Oh, I’ve got it! Your compartment for carrying 
golf clubs opens into the back also, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes, but my clubs are in it already.” 

“Take them out. No one can criticize you for that. 
Then shove the other stuff forward from the back 
and you’re all set.” 

“Grand! I’m saved! My reputation for neatness 
will be preserved untarnished.” Sandra clapped her 
hands gleefully. 

“Not quite. You have to do it first,” Joan reminded. 
“And you better hurry or your guests will be there 
first.” 


367 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Oh, they can’t!” Sandra almost howled and ran 
for the door. “G’bye and thanks!” 

“Where on earth is she going?” Saxon, who had 
narrowly avoided being knocked down, demanded 
from the doorway. 

“Down to her car,” Joan explained, hurriedly relating 
the incident. “Where are you spending your vacation, 
Saxon?” 

“With Geneve and her mother. You know,” she re¬ 
flected, “I think we’re going to end by not only being 
relatives, but good friends into the bargain.” 

“I’m glad for you. And for Geneve, too. Does she 
think that she passed the exams all right?” 

“Yes. Western Civilization was her only real stum¬ 
bling block and she asked about that. She’s all right 
academically. But I don’t know whether the girls 
are going to accept her into the fold as easily as we 
expected.” 

“Don’t fret about it,” Joan said decisively. “It’ll take 
a little time but she’ll be all right now. After all, it’s 
just not human nature for everyone to welcome her 
with open arms after they’ve been snubbed a few times. 
She’ll have a fresh start in the fall though.” 

“I hope you’re right, and I think you are.” 

“But, Saxon, I’ve got to run along now. The folks 
are probably waiting for me downstairs. Tell Geneve 
goodbye for me, and forget everything except having 
fun this summer. You surely deserve it.” 

“You, too, Joan. Well, so long till fall.” 

368 


JOAN'S FRESHMAN YEAR AT STANFORD 

“Adios!” 

Beside Hugh in the car once more, Joan leaned back 
contentedly. It had been the happiest day in a long, 
long time. A full year of Stanford behind her—a year 
of work and play, fun and sorrow—a year that was 
only the beginning, and a taste of what the future 
would bring. Glancing sidewise at Hugh, she found 
him gazing straight ahead as they went up the drive 
—not only seeing the campus, but memories of past 
years. 

As they approached the gate, Joan suddenly remem¬ 
bered. Del! Hurriedly she looked at her watch! Five 
twenty-eight! A little bewildered and puzzled at her 
request, Mr. Bishop stopped the car and Joan got 
out with Don and Hugh following. There was still 
no sight of Del, but a minute later a small yellow dot 
appeared in the sky. Closer and closer it came out of 
the west in a long fast swooping dive that brought it 
overhead. It was the plane Del usually flew, and as he 
circled above Joan could see him wave. It was Del’s 
way of saying goodby or “Happy Landings.” 

Back once more in the car they watched the little 
ship gliding lower toward the airport, and, as it passed 
the Palo Alto Tree, the two presented an emblematic 
picture of Stanford—the background of centuries of 
history and culture that the huge tree had watched 
pass in review, and man’s latest achievement. 

“To the future!” Joan spoke softly to herself, “to 
Stanford, and to all of us. Happy landings!” 








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